


Power to make light, power to cast shadows

by Minita



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And can be naive at times...you may want to slap him once or twice, Angst, Brandon is good or...not. I am giving him an open ending, Dark Dany, F/M, Jon has a lot of apologising to do, Jon is kind of submissive or something like that, Jon is very confused, Mentions of past abuse, Not Dany friendly but she’s not a total monster yet...if you hate her read with care, Political Intrigue, Sacrificial Jon, Sansa is playing hard to get, Smut, The ending is show canon, They get into bed relatively quick but...lots of issues, Tyrion is a villain folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-07 03:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita
Summary: Alternative ending. After the burning of KL. Jon sits by Daenerys’s side as her “nephew and heir” she has “forgiven his treason” and Tyrion’s. Daenerys has summoned Sansa to court. Arya has taken Qyburn’s face and stands as part of her “council.” Tyrion is Hand.





	1. A trickle of blood

The throne room looks very different from what she remembers. The roof is gone and columns and windows are blackened by the fire. She can’t help to look at people’s faces as she walks towards the throne. She has seen them before, courtiers, present to see and to be seen, always whispering, mocking, looking down on those who have fallen from the King’s grace. There’s no whispering this time, and little mocking. Perhaps is the smell of corpses still hanging in the air that makes everyone wary.

Daenerys sits on the enormous throne slightly slanted, as if she couldn’t find a comfortable spot. Her dress is beautifully embroidered with gold thread and tiny red stones. Rubies, Sansa thinks, she’s wearing costly stones in a city where half is starving and half is burnt. Tyrion stands on the left of the throne, his mismatched eyes greet her in recognition but he says nothing, and he looks as if he has aged a hundred years in the last few weeks. Sansa delayed as much as she could but by the time the third raven arrived she knew she couldn’t avoid to face her anymore.

Unsullied and Dothraki stand in a half circle at the bottom of the stairs, guarding their queen. Qyburn takes a step forward and says calmly, “Your Grace, my lords and ladies, this is Sansa Stark, Wardeness of the North.”

Daenerys’s unnaturally beautiful eyes lighten and she says, “We know who she is, no need to introduce her. Welcome to court, my lady.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa bobs her head slightly and then remains standing very straight. 

She can now see the intricate design on Daenerys’s chest, it looks like flames coming out of her waist and going all the way to the collar of her dress. Flames. Well, she’s not even pretending anymore.

“I trust you had a good trip, my lady,” Tyrion attempts to smile. 

“Thank you Lord Tyrion, I have had it worse.” 

And then she sees him. It’s him but at the same time is not. Her mind refuses to accept he is sitting by that woman’s side instead of being down there with her. There’s a simpler chair to the queen’s right side, two steps below the level of the throne. Jon’s wearing his old brown doublet without the wolf gorget and his very worn out boots. No wolves in sight but no dragons either. He has an ugly cut by his left ear that he tries to cover wearing his hair down. Sansa has not seen him wear it like this since they were children, he has long luscious curls that create little shadows on his cheeks, his beard is very closely shaved. He looks a bit pale but otherwise well enough. Jon stares at her with those eyes dark as night and Sansa forces herself to look away. 

Qyburn gives her a smug smile, holding his hands in front of him. _Are you?,_ Sansa wonders, _are you my little sister? Did you get to do as planned?_ No word has reached north of Cersei’s fate, but Sansa supposes if Arya didn’t get to do it wearing her Hand’s face then Daenerys must have executed Cersei anyway.____

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“Enough talk,” Daenerys breaks the silence, “you have been summoned to bend the knee and swear your alliance to me, your rightful queen.” 

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“You are not my rightful queen.”

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Shocking gasps bounce around the roofless hall, “The North is an independent kingdom as it was before Aegon the Conqueror” 

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“The North,” Daenerys raises her voice above the voices of the lords, “is part of the Seven Kingdoms and is mine by right, I will not consent rebellion” 

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“But you allowed the Iron Islands to gain their independence, why can’t the North have it?”

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More gasps and murmurs, and Sansa takes a moment to observe her. Her hands are in a fist, resting between broken blades, she’s clenching her jaw and squinting her eyes ever so slightly. Sansa thinks she can see a tiny trickle of blood between Daenerys’s fingers, and she remembers hearing that the throne has a tendency to cut their occupants, rightful or otherwise.

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“Are you mocking me?, it’s foolish of you to assume I would overlook your treason simply because you are related to my nephew. As you know I’m the Queen, I have taken what is mine with fire and blood!.” 

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“Indeed Your Grace, I saw plenty of both when I disembarked, King’s Landing was not kind to me during my time here but I was sorry to see the richest city in Westeros turned into a slaughter house.”

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The room is so quiet Sansa can hear the Dothraki guards breathing. Jon speaks, his voice carries clearly around the room. 

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“Surely Lady Sansa is tired after her journey, perhaps tomorrow she will be more reasonable.” 

She sees Daenerys uncurl her fists, and two drops on blood fall on the floor by the throne.

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Tyrion seems to wake up and turns to Daenerys, “Lady Sansa is here representing the largest of the kingdoms, the Starks have been loyal to the crown for centuries and she will...” 

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“Stark?” Daenerys shifts on the throne and appears to flinch in pain, “if I understand correctly, she’s Lady Lannister, isn’t she?” 

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“Your Grace, please” Tyrion says softly.

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“Bend the knee, and I will be generous,” the dragon queen smiles, “I will allow the north to form a governing council in your absence” 

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“My absence?” What could she possibly mean?, she notices Jon turned to look at Daenerys. 

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“Since you will live at King’s Landing with your husband, of course, Lady Lannister.”

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Sansa feels as if she’s been punched in the gut. Jon has sunk in his chair again and is now his turn to clench his jaw. _No,_ Sansa thinks, _not again, I would rather die, I would rather die._ She can’t hear the court’s whisper, or Tyrion’s protest, all she can hear is her own beating heart.

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She once heard one of Ramsay’s men talk about the Red Wedding, she stood there listening to what they did to her mother, to Robb and his wife, the images in her head kept her awake for days, fear growing inside her like a snake. _If I must die let it be for the North_ the thought in her head is so clear she thinks everyone can hear it. Can he?

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“We are not slaves, Your Grace, we are free men and women. We fought as allies in the Great War and we helped you get your throne, but you don’t own us. Our ancestors had been here long before yours came, and King Robb Stark and thousands more died for our freedom, we will not bend the knee anymore.”

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When Jon says aloud, “Sansa, please!” she feels dizzy and has to look down at her own hands and breath to steady herself. When she looks up again, Daenerys is smiling. 

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“Do you know the penalty for treason, Lady Lannister?” 

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“I do, Your Grace.” 

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“Dany, no! you can’t do this!” Jon is yelling at the dragon, grabbing the arms of his chair.

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“She’s guilty, of course,” Qyburn blurts out, “but she must be given a trial, for all the lords to see how you dispense justice, my Queen.” 

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“There will be no trial, she will be executed at dawn.” 

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“Your Grace,” Tyrion takes a step towards the throne, “it will be wise to hear her in trial, to have everything properly recorded, this...you must make it clear for the north that this isn’t personal, but the queen’s justice. This will be the first trial held in your reign, it will go down in history.”

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The Mad King’s daughter remains calm, her arms now relaxed on the chair as if the talk of death pleased her. Sansa can hear the courtiers fretting behind her and she notices the Dothraki guards are also shifting in their feet. She looks at Daenerys’s left, where the Mountain used to stand by Joffrey. The Mountain. A sort of madness takes her over. 

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Her voice carries clearly across the room, “I appeal to trial by combat.”

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Jon leaps from his seat and grabs her arms, his face so close to hers she sees only the deep dark pool of his eyes. How she never noticed a hint of purple in them before, she can’t tell.

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He whispers, “Sansa please, I beg you, bend the knee, it’s not worth it, your life is not worth losing, not like this, not here, who will protect the north if you’re gone? Think of Arya, of Brandon! Tell her you have changed your mind, tell her you believe in her, Sansa, listen!” 

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Daenerys yells at him, “Aegon! Sit!”

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In the deafening silence that follows, a man’s voice says, “Your Grace, trial by combat was abolished by King Tommen, she can’t have one.” 

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The dragon stands very slowly, and all eyes are on her, all but Jon’s who is still holding her arms, his eyes closed. 

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“King Tommen?, asks Qyburn, “you mean the Lannister bastard, an usurper?, our Queen will dispense justice as she pleases, for she’s not bounded to the usurper’s law.” 

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The man that spoke before steps up to the front and stutters, “of co...of course” It’s Samwell Tarly.

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The dragon queen and Qyburn conference for a moment, him whispering in her ear, Tyrion standing there, just watching. The dragon looks around before speaking. 

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"Everywhere I went in Essos, the peoples took me in as their saviour and I learnt their languages and respected their customs. Maester Qyburn has explained to me trial by combat is an ancient Westerosi tradition and I wish to honour it, but it's not possible." 

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“Why?” says Qyburn, a bit too abruptly. 

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“because,” she smiles widely, “she has no champion.”

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“She does now,” Jon says.

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	2. A knife to the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is disappointed with Jon but they still care for each other a lot. Jon struggles with self identity and the (false) idea that Ned Stark was the most honorable man ever. Ned was wonderful but can we all just admit that he was capable of lying for a greater good?

He spent the afternoon at Flea Bottom with Ser Davos. Daenerys agreed to give him a few Unsullied and whatever wood they could find to build shelters for the families that lost their homes to fire. Ser Davos has been gathering the people in teams to help get rid of the rubble and put up the roofs, but work is slow, Jon suggests they call on women and children to help as well, because all this heat can only mean big snows are coming. These southerners are not ready for real winter, and Daenerys’s council doesn’t seem to care.

They hurry back to the Red Keep before sunset, and Jon goes straight to the dungeons but is surprised to find Sansa is under arrest in Qyburn’s chambers instead. He walks in and sees her sitting by the open window brushing her hair, looking like something out of a song.

Sansa turns her head to him and smiles. He stands in front of her, watching, and when she starts braiding her hair, he’s taken over by a foolish desire to touch it, to kiss it. Sansa talks first. 

“You shouldn’t have done it, is too risky.” 

“Aye, next time I will let her chop your head off.” The minute he says it, he regrets it. Ashamed, he blurts, “I’m sorry for everything”

“Everything?” her eyes are deep blue like a lake. 

“For what happened to you here, for what Cersei did to you, and I’m sorry you had to leave home and come here” 

“None of that was your fault. There are things you’ve done and I don’t hear you apologising for those.”

He didn’t have any choice, did he? Daenerys is powerful, with large armies loyal to her, and now even with the dragon gone she has control of the capital and whatever is left of the treasury. All the other lords can see it, that’s why they bent the knee. She’s feared for sure, but is it possible that Sansa doesn’t fear her? She has to know that she is defying her and it cannot end well for anyone.

He sighs, “none of this will matter in the morning and I came...I had to see you. In case I don’t make it.” 

Sansa’s eyes pierce through his clothes, his skin and bones, and touch his soul. “I’m worried about you," she says. 

“Don’t be. I’m good at killing” 

“Well, you were already killed once.” 

He chuckles, “True. But I didn’t stay dead” 

Sansa stares at him, “There’s no Red Woman this time”

The air in the room is stuffy, so he unbuttons the collar of his doublet and takes off Longclaw and his gloves and sets them on a table by her side. He is much better with gestures than with words, so he goes to her and grabs her hand, rubbing his rough thumb in tiny circles on her soft skin. Her slender hands are so pale he can see her blue veins, and an ugly scar on her index finger that he never noticed before. A touch of roughness in her silky skin. 

“What happened to your finger?” 

She removes her hand, “It’s just from sewing”

She hasn’t told him to sit but he’s being up since daybreak. He looks around and there isn’t any other chair, so he sits on the floor by her, but when he touches her hand again, she stiffens a bit. He wants to hold her, to fill his nose with her smell, but she seems aloof.

He sits there, her mere presence is enough to sooth him. Suddenly, she touches the scar above his left ear, so recent is still tender and asks, “what about this one?” 

“Not from sewing,” he grins. 

Sansa’s face is serious, “and this?” She traces the fading scar around his right eye. 

“It’s very old, an eagle attacked me. I killed the man who was warging it.” 

_Ygritte._

_ _ His ghosts seem to accompany him everywhere, but here, sitting next to Sansa, he feels almost...light._ _

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_ _She looks down at the scar on his chest, the tip barely visible through his open collar but says nothing. When she came to him at Castle Black he reluctantly told her about the treason of his men. Her eyes shone with fear when he told her that the Red Woman had brought him back with some dark magic but she was cold, exhausted, and shocked, so she just nodded and asked nothing else. _ _

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“I didn’t see anything, there’s nothing beyond, just darkness” he answers to the question she still doesn’t dare to ask. He stares at the fire for a moment and when he turns to look at Sansa there are tears streaming down her cheeks. 

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“No, no, don’t cry, don’t, Sansa, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, was it what I said?,” Jon hugs her and she sobs, her cheek leaning against his forehead.

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After a while she calms down and looks at him, wet eyes and red nose, “I was hoping to see my mother again, and father. One day. Beyond. They threw her to the river, did you know?” 

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Jon shakes his head, “you will, you will see her” 

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“But, you just said...” Sansa's voice is a whisper. 

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"Maybe the darkness was just for me.” 

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“Why? she asks, "That doesn’t make any sense”

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If she knew. Some nights he still wakes up cold, back at Castle Black, naked, terrified. The weight of his choices is so heavy he wonders why he hasn’t been crushed yet. He tried to save the wildlings but his brothers hated him for it, judged him hardly just as Sansa does. All his dead are a heavy slab over his head. Every day. Every hour. 

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“I lied. I deceived a woman who loved me. I killed a brother of the Night’s Watch, I deserted once, or tried to. And then I broke my promises to the north. I have no right to call myself a Stark” 

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“Don’t say that”. 

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“It’s true, you know it is.” The knot in his heart feels like a fresh stab, and the words that have turned his world upside down still cannot find a place to settle inside his head. He’s not a Stark and now not even a Snow. And Father is not his father, not truly. 

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When Sansa hugs him, her hands on his hair, he kneels before her and buries his face in her skirts, breathing in her smell, asking for forgiveness. 

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“I wish I were his son, but I’m not, I tried to keep my word, always, like he would have, but I failed” he pleads, his voice a gruff. 

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Sansa remains quiet for a moment until she asks, “Do you think father was always honourable?” 

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“Always”. 

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“I know a story Bran told me” she says. 

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As she tells him of what happened at the Tower of Joy he grows more and more surprised, he now recalls how father didn’t like talking about defeating Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning, when any man in his place would have been proud. Yet father was ashamed, ashamed of fighting without honour. It all makes sense now. Ser Arthur was a superior swordsman, and they were three against seven. If Bran saw it it must be true, Howard Reed stabbed Ser Arthur on the back, like a common brigand. No honour in that. But if he hadn’t, if he hadn’t, father would have died that day. _And Robert would have killed me,_ he realises with a jolt, and Sansa, Arya, Brandon and Rickon would have never been born.__

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When morning comes Jon wakes up sitting on the floor, his head still on Sansa’s lap. They talked for hours, in whispers, remembering them. They laughed at the pranks and the snow fights and cried until their hearts felt clean again. Sansa is snoring slightly on the chair, completely exhausted. He gets up as silent as a cat and kisses her gently on the forehead, his lips brushing her hair. 

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“Lucky,” he murmurs, “kissed by fire.” 

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When he leaves the room Qyburn is standing in the hallway, “Maester Qyburn, good morning” 

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“My lord prince,” he answers with a curious look in his eyes. 

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Strange man.

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	3. A rose of blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon fights, he has a few tricks under his sleeve. Beware mentions of blood and violence

Arya curses under her breath. Daenerys is at her seat already and surrounded by a dozen Dothraki. She has been trying to get to her alone all morning, nothing. This wasn’t her original plan; she was going to take Sansa and leave this ruined city with or without Jon's help, but she figured she could never sneak Sansa out of the ruins of the Red Keep with Qyburn's face on. What to do?, she fretted all night, playing scenarios in her mind, she could take an Unsullied face, or Tyrion’s, take Sansa and leave, but will she have time to prepare the face? And will they be able to outrun the riders the dragon will send to their chase.?

Eventually she decided taking Daenerys down while everyone was distracted with the combat was her best shot. She’s been present in a couple of councils after earning the dragon queen's trust and knows that Drogon took off after the attack to the city and hasn’t been seen in a while. It’s now or never. Targaryen banners flap in the wind, posted all around the pit. Everything and everyone is wearing some shade of red or black, or both, ladies and lords curtsying to their queen, same people that swore loyalty to Cersei once. Same people that cheered when father died.

The mother of dragons smiles graciously to left and right when lords and ladies walk by, her hair perfectly done as usual. Arya walks up the steps, bows Qyburn’s head to Daenerys and positions herself two seats behind her. Sansa is standing by the entrance of the pit, her hair a little disheveled but she stands straight and her face is composed. Arya can’t help but to smile at her sister. 

“My lords and ladies,” Tyrion begins, “Lady Stark stands here accused of rebellion against the crown. We appeal to the seven to bear witness and concede victory to the innocent” 

The audience claps. _Cunts._ Grey Worm approaches the dais where Daenerys is and bends one knee, she smiles and nods to him. As he stands, Arya sees he has a sword in his belt, and a dagger. Good, she thinks, Jon is unbeatable with his Valyrian steel and Grey Worm can’t fight a sword with a spear.__

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When the clapping dies Sansa walks to her seat on the right side of the dais, surrounded by guards. Jon walks in the pit a moment after, his face guarded as usual, and approaches Daenerys. Arya moves closer to hear. 

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“What is that?” he asks, “I don’t need any of that, this is a fight, not a bloody parade." 

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The mother of dragons sounds almost apologetic when she says, “you are a prince of the realm, and I knew you will not agree to a Targaryen banner, so I had it made for you.”

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The morning air is humid and quite warm, as it happens before a storm, and she sees droplets of sweat on Jon’s forehead as he leans towards the dragon woman. Arya loses part of the conversation as they are almost whispering. 

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“A flower?” he ask. 

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“I meant it as a winter rose," Daenerys explains, "I heard your mother was fond of them, it’s in our colours.” 

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Jon speaks to her some more and then descends the steps. A young squire carries a black banner with a crimson rose in the centre that looks as if it has been stabbed and is bleeding. Arya sees Jon walk not towards the centre of the pit where Grey Worm already awaits him, but to the seats on the right, behind the bannister decorated with crimson roses and the Targaryen sigil, where Sansa sits. She’s so calm one would think her head is not on the line here. And Jon’s.

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He leans on the bannister for a moment, plucks a rose and gives it to her. Arya has to stretch her neck to see her sister rise from her seat to take the rose he’s offering her. When Sansa stands, everybody sitting next to her stands too, Sam and Davos, and lords and ladies Arya doesn’t know, as if she where a Queen. She thinks Sansa gave Jon something too, but she’s too far to tell for sure.

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Jon walks to the centre of the pit and unbuckles his scabbard. Longclaw’s Valyrian gleams in the sun and the crowds cheer. Grey Worm’s face is inexpressive as he draws his sword and they begin to dance, both graceful, although Jon is quicker, Grey Worm is at least one head taller than him.

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After what feels like a long time they’re both sweating and panting, and Arya moves a bit closer to Daenerys and is touching her dagger hidden under Qyburn’s robe when she hears a collective gasp. Jon is on his four, from his left leg blood springs and soils the floor. Daenerys gets up and Tyrion talks to her holding her hand, from the corner of her eye she sees Sansa remains sitting, looking pale as a ghost.

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Slowly, grunting, Jon gets up. They resume parrying, and it would seem the leg has stopped bleeding, but Arya notices Jon steps are slower, and his blows aim higher, and she realises he’s trying to end the fight now, too tired to go on. He cuts Grey Worm on the right shoulder, and Grey Worm cuts him on the face. Jon keeps moving and he strikes with such force than for a moment Grey Worm panics and Jon moves forward, steel against steel the only sound.

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Arya sees the Dothraki are distracted with the fight and makes a move towards Daenerys when she hears a scream. She looks to the dragon queen but is not her. Sansa, she thinks. And then she hears her sister. 

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“No, please, no, Jon! Yield, yield!” 

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His sword is still in his hand but he has lowered his arm. Grey Worm stands still too, and it takes Arya a moment to realise Jon’s doublet is cut, a huge gap in the brown leather shows a hint of pale skin and blood. Lots of blood.

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Jon rises his head slowly in the direction of Sansa’s loud sobs. 

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“Please, just yield, is all right, is all right.” 

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Sansa nods to him, their eyes meet in the mist of all. Lords, ladies, banners, the sun, the huge hole in his belly, nothing seems to be important enough to distract Jon and Sansa from looking at each other.

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Grey Worm takes a couple of steps back and looks at the Dragon Queen. Daenerys nods to him but does not say a word. 

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“Stop,” Arya whispers, “Stop, yield, yield.” 

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Grey Worm crouches to pick something from the ground. Something is wrong. More blood gushes from Jon’s belly, a pool already forming, and he spits some blood as well. He then throws Longclaw to the ground.

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Something is wrong. Arya feels a punch to her gut, what is it?. Jon drops to his knees. He’s unarmed. 

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“No!” It’s Sansa’s voice again, “no!, he yielded, he yielded!” 

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Daenerys leaves her seat, followed by her Dothraki. Arya doesn’t follow her, she can’t take her eyes from Jon, and from Grey Worm. No. Something’s in the Unsullied's hand. He lifts his arms and Arya can’t feel, she can’t hear, all she can do is watch, a spear, Grey Worm had a spear hidden, he’s killing him, spearing him. 

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The Unsullied yells as he lifts his weapon with both hands to strike the final blow but before he can do it the spear falls to the floor with a loud clank. People stand to watch, to point, Grey Worm lays on the ground choking in his own blood, Jon’s dagger stuck to his belly.

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	4. Kissed by fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon obviously didn’t die in the previous chapter. He confesses his feelings to Sansa but Sansa is not ready for it. Warning: At the end of the chapter there is a very disturbing conversation with Dany.

Jon sees a fire, a beautiful red fire, warm and soft, she caresses his cheeks, his forehead, it’s beautiful, this death is beautiful, with a silvery voice. Help, she says, a maester, please. Arya looks at him, kneels by him, but is not her face. Just her eyes. The fire holds him, squeezing his hands, Jon, Jon, his name, his real name, a kiss to his forehead, the sky swirls, everything swirls, Qyburn, Sam, Jon, Jon, look at me! She’s beautiful, a river, a fish, a wolf, a Weirdwood tree. 

He finds his voice, weak and not as beautiful as hers. 

“You are so beautiful, I told you, you’re lucky, kissed by fire, we...we’ll go back to that cave” 

She smiles. Then he knows he’s dying. He has felt it before, the moment the pain stops and numbness takes over, all his ties to life vanishing, all but the red thread of her hair. 

“I love you Sansa, I loved you since we were children, I always have.”

He swims in a very cold river and shivers. Then a wolf cries, a little pup, white as snow. 

“Ghost” 

Sansa wipes his forehead with a fresh cloth. The fever takes a hold of him for days while a huge storm rages outside, but he lives. Day and night are blurry but every time he wakes up Sansa is there, often Sam and Qyburn too, looking at him with concern, helping Sansa change his bedsheets. One day he is able to sit and eat soup. 

“How are you feeling?” 

She picks a stray curl and puts it behind his ear. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You lost a lot of blood, but Sam says the cut to your belly was not as deep as it seemed and he says you should be able to travel in a couple of weeks, we’ll go slowly to let you rest. We’re riding to Riverrun, my uncle Edmure has invited us to spend some time there and you can recover some more. Sam is leaving as well, he wants to go home to his family.”

Family. Or whatever they are now. Brandon with his visions and Arya with her training. He suddenly remembers how strange Qyburn has being acting around him. But it cannot be. Can it? How could nobody notice? 

“Sansa, where’s Arya?” 

She lowers her eyes. “Home. You sent her away after the city burnt.” 

The last time he saw her she was covered in ashes, exhausted and furious, her only words to him, "she’s a killer, Jon, I know it!." But if she stayed...she has a plan.

“Tell me the truth.” 

Sansa sighs and then tells him everything he wants to know and more. She talks about Braavos and trainings, and Arya wearing faces to be close to her. His head is a bit dizzy but he asks her, begs her, to send Arya to safety, not tomorrow, now. Sansa agrees to send Arya to Riverrun ahead of them. Arya may be fearless but they can't help to worry about her, and he can feel Sansa is worried about Brandon too, away in Winterfell. They have to protect each other, and Sansa and him are the oldest, they have to look after their little brother and little sister. 

_I have no sister._

_ _Gods help him, he felt the weight off his shoulders since he found out. He felt shame for a long time, until his desire for her overtook it. He is drawn to her, like any man will be to a good fire on a cold night. __

_ _

_ _Sansa could be reading his mind when she says, “what you said out there, I know you were wounded and you didn’t mean it, I understand. I’m not offended.”_ _

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“I meant every word”. _Gods help me._ If she does not share his feelings better to know now. __

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Her eyes scan his face, the fresh cut in his cheek burning under her sight. She doesn’t seem surprised by his confession, but her face is guarded, she doesn’t smile, she just holds his hand in both of hers. 

“I can’t, Jon. I wish I could, you are a good man, I know, but I just can’t, not after what I’ve been through. Do you understand?”

His gut twists inside him, but he says the only thing he can say to her. 

“Yes.” 

What he really wants to say is that he will wait for her; that he will spend the rest of his life waiting for her, that he doesn’t deserve her love. This he knows, but he’s a bastard, and he has always wanted what he cannot have. 

He then remembers the linen handkerchief covered in minute stitched roses that Sansa gave him. He takes it from the side table and puts it in her hand.

“Thank you. It gave me luck, kept me protected.”

Sansa looks at the strand of her own red hair between the folds of the linen and smiles. 

“You should keep it. The knight always keeps his lady’s favour.” 

I’m not a knight, he thinks, but you are my lady. He holds the handkerchief tight in his fist, holding to whatever she gives him, even if it’s not the love he wants.

A knock on the door interrupts them, it’s Daenerys asking to talk to him alone. Sansa leaves reluctantly.

—————————————————————————

Daenerys sits there asking him how he feels, and smiling to him as if nothing had happened. Her sweet words just make him feel cold. 

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“You wanted to kill me, you ordered Grey Worm to do it even after I have yielded”. 

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“And yet he’s dead and you are alive.” She admits without guilt, “many in court whisper your victory was without honour, you yielded but you had a dagger hidden and killed him.” 

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“Honour?” He’s dizzy but he can’t stop yelling at her. “You wanted to execute her without a trial! You gave me and Grey Work no option but to fight!” 

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She has the decency to look mortified but snaps back, “You shouldn’t have chosen her over me, you embarrassed me in front of everyone, they laughed at me! mocked me! I’m Queen! It’s mine by right!” 

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She breathes, making an effort to control herself. She sees the handkerchief he’s holding, and her fingers brush the embroidered roses. “I...understand why you feel bonded to the North, I too...wished to go back to what I thought was home, but I was wrong, I didn’t belong there. And now that you know the truth about yourself this is your place, with me.” Her timid smile does not warm him. “I have recognised you publicly, even though there’s no proof or your parentage, nothing but your brother’s word, I have forgiven your treason, because I love you. Do you not see it?” She pleads, “I am allowing the Northern armies to leave, and even her. But, you must stay, you belong here. Together, you and I, we can take what they stole from us, with fire and blood.” 

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“What they stole from us?” _Us?_

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He looks into her eyes, looking for something, she is after all his aunt, his blood, once his lover, once his ally. But he cannot name whatever it is she makes him feel.

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_ _ _“I will leave for the North too.” ___

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_ __ She frowns. “Why? You are no longer king. The North is now your sister’s.”_ _ _

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_ _“She is not my sister”_ _

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Daenerys sits up straight, the light of understanding lighting behind her eyes. “I tried reasoning with you, but you have forgotten who you are, Jon. You are a prince of the realm and my heir, and I am still queen over all Westeros, don’t forget that, never.”

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"I haven't forgotten Dany, but you need to understand that after everything that has happened the North will never bend to you. I did, but I’m not their king anymore, as you well know” He searches for her eyes, perhaps if he could...reason with her?

_ __ _

“So you want to leave me, then” she says with a smile, but her eyes are cold. “I cannot force you to stay, but I heard Sam is leaving too, to see his wife and his baby, it would be a horrible tragedy if something would happen to him. Or to his family. Choose wisely, Jon Snow.”

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He stays still, his limbs frozen in shock. She storms out of the room and Jon cannot believe what he just heard. Everything they have suffered has been for nothing, every sacrifice, useless, it all means nothing if this is their future, a future of fear, of blood. King's Landing is not enough. She won't stop. He’s as guilty as Tyrion, as guilty as Varys, as guilty as his men. And now he can name what it is in his heart for her. Fear. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic Daenerys has embraced her fire and blood but Jon hasn’t. He is still in shock from his parentage reveal and trying to give Dany the benefit of doubt. He obviously loves the Starks but he is been sort of submissive to Dany, a bit like in the show. I know. I hate that too but I didn’t want to write a flawless Jon. Or a perfect romance between him and Sansa.


	5. A lone wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after a Jonsa fight? That’s right, Jonsa make up sex. Brief mentions of Ramsay and trauma.

They made an effort to travel light but still the snows stopped them. It has taken them a fortnight, and although they’re close to Riverrun, is too dangerous to go on in a storm like this and what is left of the northern armies need rest, so they decided to make camp at High Heart. Gendry joined them a couple of days ago, and after supper Arya entertained everyone with her stories about the “ghost” that told her many mysterious riddles. Gendry also tells stories of his time with the brotherhood that make men cry laughing, and Sansa knows they all refrain from telling dirty jokes because she is present. 

Sansa drinks her wine and smiles, the warm fire and the snow storm raging outside remind her of home, of the feast they had when everyone seemed satisfied. Everyone but the dragon woman. She was upset, of course, when Jon said he wasn’t coming with them, she tried to reason with him, Sam tried too, but he remained firm. In the end she decided to leave without him, worried Daenerys would change her mind and execute her anyway, and she can be a lot more useful away from the capital. Time to move some pieces.

She can’t wait to see her Uncle Edmure. They spoke briefly when she showed up at King’s Landing at Daenerys’s request and he was already leaving with the other lords after bending the knee, he seemed restless and uncomfortable, he asked her lots of questions about the dragons and about Jon. The way some hunters can recognise an animal and its size and so much more by just looking at its footprints, she can tell when rebellion is brewing, she just does. All her time living at court, watching Cersei and Tyrion, hearing whispers, and talking to Margaery, at least one good thing came out of it.

And how could they not rebel? After seeing by themselves what she had done, surely none of the lords and ladies were confident about the future of Westeros in her hands. When she summoned them, they had already got Varys’s ravens and yet pretended to be surprised when Daenerys presented Jon to the court, his name changed, and acting as if she wasn’t threatened by him, by his higher claim. Of course people whispered, of course they had questions, and Elia? was the marriage truly annulled? And if he’s Raeghar’s son why is she the one ruling?

They kept their questions to themselves though. Tyrion realised how unusual all of this seemed to them and did his best to gather information to protect his dragon queen, but Sam was clever enough not to show him the copy of the scroll from the Citadel he had. Sansa kept her own copy at Winterfell too and she’s certainly telling no one that she wrote to Meera Reed, and to Gilly as well, because she was the one who saw the original before she left the Citadel with Sam. None of them will be loyal to Daenerys.

Later that night she can’t sleep well, she keeps having dreams, dreams of falling, falling and no one to stop her. In one of her dreams she hears a wolf howling and it is so real she wakes up saying “lady”. Suddenly, the door opens to a silhouette outlined by the torches in the hallway.

“Sansa, it’s me” she recognises his voice in disbelief as he sits on the bed.

“Are you a dream?” 

“No, Sansa, it’s really me.” 

When she hugs him she can smell leather and campfire, and his hair gleaming with melting snowflakes makes her smile. He has brought the snow with him. He seems anxious to unburden himself, unusually talkative.

“Sansa, I know it sounds foolish but... I thought she would be different, I truly did, she told me her plans to help people, she told me she wanted to defeat Cersei, and after she came to defend the North I believed her. I never thought she would do this, that she could be so cruel, and the things her soldiers did, and ours! I regret it. I wish I hadn’t come. I was wrong to trust her, to listen to her. You were right to distrust her. Forgive me”

He sounds sincere but his words hurt. She has been lying to herself, thinking she had left everything behind, everything that happened at home. The truth is she is still furious at him for not supporting her, for leaving her alone to deal with the strong headed northerners while he paraded his girlfriend around, taking leisure rides on dragons while she was losing her mind trying to feed everyone. And why did he bend the knee? He didn’t even answer her question. She wants to shake him, to make him see.

“I know you did the best you could, but it wasn’t enough, not for the North, not after everything that had happened. I never thought you will surrender our home, the only home we have. It was awful, awful. It was as if I was invisible. All of us. You betrayed me.”

He rises from the bed and takes a step back. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m a traitor?” 

She hates to dance this with him. Can he not see that she’s trying to trust him again even against her best judgement?. “Seven hells, Jon! You’re worst than Arya!”

“I doubt it, you Starks are the worst” 

“You?” she asks, "not we?".

They stare at each other silently. She tries to pull him back to her, “you are a Stark to me.”

He grimaces. “Sometimes I don’t know what I am anymore”. He sinks on a chair, avoiding her gaze “I left against her wishes, she will send men to find me and bring me back. I can’t put you and Arya in danger for harbouring a traitor. I’ll go my way and you won’t have to worry about me anymore. I’ll be gone in the morrow.”

“Gone? Where will you go?”

“Does it matter?”

Sansa can’t remember now what they were arguing about, but there’s something invisible between them that she can almost touch. It feels like the air in the middle of a storm, right before a lightning strikes. She has good reasons to be angry at Jon but the thought of Daenerys murdering him is too much to bear, she knows that now that he left her she will think he’s conspiring against her and won’t hesitate to murder him. The pack must survive. Now is not the moment for squabbles. 

“I can’t let you go. Your mother’s ghost will come back and haunt me.” 

Jon contemplates her quietly. He shakes his head as a smile appears on in his face. “I suppose I cannot run away from the most powerful lady in Westeros, a daughter of Riverrun, a cousin of the Vale.” 

“I’m not the most powerful woman in Westeros, I don’t have dragons.” 

“Neither does she.”

Sansa looks into his bright eyes and wants him to hug her, to make her forget everything she has seen, and everything he has done. She knows she should not forgive him that easily, but she can’t leave him alone out there, like a lone wolf. He looks weary.

“You’ll want to rest.”

“Umm” he says, but doesn’t move.

Time stands still in that room, in that moment.

“Or you can stay here.” 

She hasn’t finished saying it when Jon has taken off his boots and cloak, and is climbing into bed with her.

He tells her that he made Daenerys believe he was staying in the capital but it was only to buy time, she had threatened all of them; Sam and his family as well. When he felt strong enough he rode to find them, burning horses in his hurry, not a word to anyone, not even Ser Davos. As he talks Sansa can barely see his face in the dark so she lights the candle on her night table and a red dragon flashes across his chest. Jon notices her flinching, chuckles and tells her his one doublet had a huge gap courtesy of Grey Worm’s sword and Daenerys gave him this. 

“Really, Jon, you have one doublet? She must have thought you were a beggar” She half jokes, but he is serious.

“I didn’t think of packing much when I left Winterfell, I wasn’t planning on staying south for long. It was this or my name day suit.” 

“Well, that’s an interesting idea.” 

When Jon looks up at her the purple twinkle in his eyes makes her heart skip a beat. 

_Gods, what are you doing, Sansa?___

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_ _She touches his face and rakes her fingers through his curls. Everyone says she is so strong. She’s but a woman, and she’s tired of being alone, of having to be so strong, and perfect. She thinks of Brienne, a knight and the bravest woman she knows. She at least got to know what it was like to be with the man she loved. Would it be so terrible if she would follow her desires for once? Gods, her mother would have been dismayed by her behaviour. Jon is in bed with her. And she wants it._ _

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She asks him to take off his doublet before her bravado leaves her, and promises to sew a new one, one that has no dragon. He unlatches and throws it to the floor, all the time giving her one of those dark looks she can’t decipher. Wordlessly, with deliberated movements he hugs her, and begins kissing her neck and rubbing her back. She hugs him too, his arms and back hardened by years of fighting make butterflies fly in her stomach and she starts picking nervously at the open collar of his shirt.

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Is it right to act on her feelings? She has never been reckless. She does not want to play safe this time.

_ __ _

_ And if he leaves me? If he wants to go back to her?___

She pushes those voices to the back of her mind and kisses him in the mouth. Jon starts breathing rapidly and returns her kisses gently, then harder, his beard scratching her face.

“Sansa, are you sure?” He stops and searches for her eyes. 

__

She nods, shocked at the response of her body. Jon grabs her breasts and squeezes them hard, making her body arch against him. Next thing she knows, she’s rubbing her hips against his, like some wanton woman, and when Jon touches her between her legs she lets out a scream.

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“Shhh, be quiet, you’ll wake up the whole camp” 

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Something burns between her legs. She takes off her own undergarments in haste. Jon stares at the triangle of reddish hair between her legs like a hungry man. That makes her feel strangely light headed. He looks at her in the eyes again and then lowers his head and licks her. Sansa didn’t know men could do that, kiss it and lick it like it were a delicious treat. She didn’t know it could feel so good, and when Jon introduces two fingers she rubs against his hand and moans. He seems to enjoy it and when she looks down he’s hard against the trousers he’s still wearing. Sansa unlaces him and he closes his eyes and sighs. The pink skin looks so soft she asks if she can kiss it.

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“Yes, please.”-

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He moans louder and she can see it grow. Sansa knows what’s next, how a man does his thing, she has never found pleasure on it but she’s willing, for him, she wants to be with him.

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“Can I keep my shift on? I have...err...scars” 

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His dark eyes widen. He freezes.

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“We shouldn’t. I don’t want to shame you”

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“Shame me? I’m not a maiden, Jon.”

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“I know, but we are not married. What if?” 

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She hasn’t thought of babies in years but all Sam talked about were his children and she felt a bit jealous. A forgotten dream. It’s been so long, so much has happened, what if she can’t? She had so much moon tea with Ramsay that maybe she can’t now.

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“I don’t care, I want this, I want you to get your pleasure” she says bravely.

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Jon looks amused, “what about yours?

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“I know what is like. It’s fine.”

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Jon watches her in silence, his face still flushed, and his manhood hard. He holds her chin with one hand and kisses her softly. 

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“Lady Stark you may be smarter than everyone else but, there are some things you don’t know.”

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They kiss some more and Sansa likes the feeling in her head, airy, almost as if she had no concern in the world, as if the future of the north and all Westeros was not hanging from a thread. Jon separates her thighs with one hand and rolls over her, their eyes locking. When he enters her, she can feel her own wetness.

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Jon murmurs in her ear, “Sansa, Sansa, you’re so beautiful, you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, I love your hair, it is so pretty”

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His calloused hands feel her all over, her legs, her butt and breasts, the fine fabric of her shift not a barrier to his force. In an instant something changes, Sansa doesn’t understand why but as Jon thrusts wildly fear creeps inside her. When he notices he slows down.

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“You are too tense. Is it all right? Do you want me to stop?” 

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She moans “Don’t stop”

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“Wrap your legs around me”

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“whaaat?”

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“Wrap your legs around me, I want you to move in circles” he commands, and she does it, slow and then fast, like a dance. She feels...in control. And it’s good. So good.

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Jon asks her questions, does she like this, does she like that. She’s surprised she is supposed to talk at all. Then he asks her to tell him what she likes about him and when she says his beard and his eyes Jon chuckles, his breath warm in her neck. Then she realises what he means and tells him he’s so hard, and so big. As Jon’s movements slow down she becomes aware of all the sounds, of all the smells, of his hardness and her softness, of her loud moans and his hitched breath. Everything is all right. Everything is just like she wanted.

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	6. A little man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank anyone who has been reading this, I have been trying to improve my format because my dialogue is hard to read. I hope is better! Let me know in the comments. Also, in this chapter they arrive at Riverrun, I tried to show how unlike in the show, Jon’s parentage matters! Warning: mention of past abuse.

Sansa finds a perfect spot between his neck and his shoulder and she’s soon breathing rhythmically, sound asleep. He loops some loose hair strands in his fingers, it is as soft as silk, just as he imagined it will be, and he stupidly wishes they had a mirror so he could see her next to him, in only her shift and her copper veil of hair. He tries very hard to steady his own breathing and stays very still to let her sleep. 

Outside the storm seems to be passing, the howling winds slowing down as his own mind races. He knows now there’s no turning back, Daenerys is not going to give up the throne, if the lords of Westeros want her gone they will have to drag her from that chair. But she still has a powerful army, even with Drogon gone she can’t be easily defeated, and taking the capital by force is nearly impossible. 

He wishes they could just go home and forget about her. In true, with her soldiers in knee deep snow and the decimated Dothraki she will never make it past the Vale, but if she marches more will die, and as much as he wishes to flee North, he knows is not the smart thing to do. They will have to take the capital to end this. Sleep eludes him. What about the people? Haven’t they suffered enough? There has to be a way. The city must be taken without violence, without starving the people, otherwise they are all monsters, just like her. There has to be a better way, a better way to rule Westeros, one that isn’t fire and blood.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, Sansa’s legs tangled up with his. They wake up to find frost in the trees, the long fingers of winter taking over all Westeros. It’s beautiful to the eye but this means the people will suffer cold, and he wonders if at least some crops were harvested before they froze in the fields. As they ride to Riverrun, Sansa by his side, her white mare threading slowly, he realises Arya is supposed to be riding with them.

“Sansa, where is Arya? I didn’t see her join the party”.

“She left, there was somewhere she needed to go to” Sansa explains.

“Please tell me she’s not going to take another face”, says Jon.

“She’s not”. 

It’s almost nightfall when they see Riverrun castle, proud and dominant over the river. It’s beautiful here, and peaceful. 

Lord Edmure is still a young man, but years of captivity have given him a permanent frown and he looks around nervously all the time. He’s holding a torch as well as several of his men, but there is no moon tonight and Jon can barely make out the dozens of archers on the walls, he knows the archery skills of the Tullys are legendary. 

Edmure Tully makes a deep bow and says, “my Lord Prince, welcome to Riverrun” 

He then looks at Sansa and says, “my beloved niece, I’m glad to see you.”

Sansa and her uncle hug and kiss on the cheek and then Lord Edmure introduces them to Lady Tully and their little boy, the heir to Riverrun, asleep in his mother’s arms. His tiny head full of reddish hair reminds him of Rickon and when he turns to catch a glimpse of Sansa, he’s certain Sansa thought of him too, as she brushes the boy’s hair with the tip of her fingers and compliments Lady Tully about her dress. The young woman curtsies to Jon. 

“Roslyn is such a pretty name, my lady” he says, “it sounds like roses”.

She blushes and smiles. They are shown to their respective chambers, all offers of food or conversation politely declined for the late hour, and when he’s finally alone he realises he feels truly tired, and that his leg wounded by Grey Worm is throbbing, so he takes off his boots and doublet and without undressing lies under the furs.

He’s already drifting into a restless sleep, separated from Sansa by walls of stone when the door creaks. Before he can make out the figure coming in, he feels her warm arms surrounding him, a long leg on top of his, her body scooped up to his back.

“Jon, do you mind if we just cuddle? I’m tired and we have a long day tomorrow” she murmurs in the dark.

He’s as close to happiness as he has been in a long time. Is it really this simple? Her warmth, the sound of her breathing, is that what love is? It’s not what the singers sing about but he can be happy like this, he thinks to himself. 

————————————-

When morning comes he awakes to some rude knocking on his door.

“Jon, it’s me, get up!”. 

He jumps out of bed at the sound of that voice and opens the door, Arya stands there frowning, but before she can say anything he hugs her tightly. When they break their embrace, Arya stares at Sansa, standing in her night gown behind Jon. She looks shocked for a moment but she recovers quickly enough.

“Oh, so sorry to see Riverrun didn’t have an extra chamber to spare and you had to share,” Arya says with a smirk.

Sansa shakes her head and Jon feels himself blush all the way to his ears. He’s probably red as an apple, but Sansa asks calmly, “Is he here?” 

“He is” Arya nods.

A girl about Arya’s height with midnight black hair stands in the hallway, a man even shorter than her leans on her arm. His hair is scarce and completely white but he has a familiar air, Jon realises he must be related to the dark haired girl. 

Sansa says, “Thank you for coming in such a short notice Meera, I appreciate it”. 

Meera just nods and smiles. The little man asks “is it him?”

“Yes, father, right here”, says the girl.

Jon doesn’t understand a thing but soon the man is patting his face with his bony hand, and Meera explains, “my father lost his sight years ago, but his memory is intact.” 

“The last time I saw you” says the man, “you weren’t bigger than a rabbit”.

Meera gasps, “father!” She has a frank gaze, an intelligence in her eyes. “My apologies my lord Prince, I am Meera Reed, this is my father, Howland. He wanted to meet you.” 

After getting dressed Sansa orders maids around with her usual efficiency and they all end up sitting by a good fire in her chambers, drinking mulled wine. Meera inquires about Brandon’s health and news are exchanged. Everywhere in Westeros people whisper of the Prince that was promised, the undead, the hidden dragon, the rose of Winterfell, but the whispers are louder since Drogon was seen flying away to never return.

After a while conversation dies and without being asked the little man begins his tale, his voice stronger as he goes on, the memory of his youth invigorating him. Jon hears the Tower of Joy being described for the first time, and when Howland Reed says they heard a woman cry in agony he tries to drink from his cup to undo the knot in his throat.

“There was so much blood” the little man utters.

Silence is heavy on all, Arya is very still.

Jon feels tears streaming down his cheeks but he can’t find the strength to wipe them out. Sansa leaves her seat and kneels in front of him, pressing something soft in his hand. It’s her favour. Jon wipes his face with it and the smell of her fills him, and something melts in his heart washing away all the insults, burying all the broken promises and lies. Father’s weathered face on the King’s Road is still vivid and he sobs, he sobs like a little child, and when Sansa holds him he feels no shame in it. 

When he calms down he realises they are alone. His voice sounds strange to him now. “Why did you ask Howland Reed to come here, Sansa?” he asks.

“We need proof, evidence of the truth, she could name you an impostor and for them Bran’s word is not enough, how could it? They don’t know him like we do. When the lords and ladies gather they will want reassurances” Sansa says contemplating the fire. “The Vale and Highgarden, they should be arriving soon with their armies, they’ll want to meet you, and you need to convince them to help us stop her. Sam will join us too, he went to get his family and bring them here.” 

Jon snorts, “why would they help me? After King’s Landing no one will ever trust me again.”

Sansa doesn’t say anything. 

“You would have a better chance at the throne than me, armies would come for you, the Vale and Riverrun, they would fight for you, even the Stormlands will fight for Arya, not for me, no one will fight for me.”

“Don’t say that. The people will support your claim.” She smiles.

“All I want is to go home.”

Sansa hands are warm in his, her eyes ablaze with her fierceness. He no longer feels that rage that used to drive him, that wolf wildness he had in him when he was a child. For a while he was certain there wasn’t a place in the world for him anymore, why did the Gods let him come back? Come back to this world where you must kill or be killed, a burden he hates to be good at. 

But now, just her presence, just her warmth is enough to make him want to hold on to life. He grabs her face and their foreheads touch, the only reason, his only reason is her and maybe...he could find his own fierceness again.

“Sansa,” he says, “marry me.”

She’s still holding his hands, but she sits up straight. “I can’t. I’m sorry, don’t ask me again.”

He swallows hard, his mind spinning, and he utters like a stupid boy, “Do you not love me?.”

“You know I do,” Sansa answers.

“Then? I don’t understand."

Sansa squeezes his hands and seems to stop to think for a moment, and when she talks again she’s smiling.

“As a child I thought songs will come true and a handsome prince will love me, but now I know better, now I know I don’t need a handsome prince to rescue me, or to protect me. We...understand each other and you are the only man I want in my bed. Jon, saying words in front of a Septon will not make a difference for us. Do you understand?”

“I do. I’d rather have you like this that not at all, but I...please let me try to win your trust back. Please.”

Sansa smiles tentatively and he leans down and kisses her.


	7. A promised prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Arya’s POV which I find hard to write. I hope I made justice to her voice. Also, sister bonding! Just another thing the show stole from us

Gendry arrived two days ago, with supplies and two hundred men. It’s not much but speaks volumes of his loyalties. They spend the morning fishing. They didn’t catch anything but they teased each other relentlessly, and her hair is all wet. She is making her way back to her chambers when she spots a dash of blue in the snow, she leans down intrigued by it and it’s a winter rose, its large petals are icy blue. “For Sansa,” she thinks, her sister has been down with a cold for the last few days, it will cheer her up.

Arya is not the kind to spend an entire day sitting by a sick bed but for the last couple of days Jon has been spending the whole day in those chambers with Sansa. The Gods know what Jon and Sansa talk about but she has overheard them engrossed in conversations and sometimes laughing. It’s a rare thing to hear Jon laugh so carelessly. Her brother is not the boy he was when he left for the Wall, nor the man he was before he found out the truth about himself.

In spite of all the brooding he still does, this Jon seems happier, and Sansa also seems different. Just the other day Arya was in Sansa’s chambers, she was sewing and suddenly started to sing, it was “Jenny of Oldstones” Arya thinks, and she realises that when they were together at Winterfell or while Daenerys was there, she didn’t hear Sansa sing. Not once. Lost in her thoughts she opens the door to Sansa’s chambers and finds her sitting by the fire, sewing.

“Glad to see you are feeling better,” she says, putting the rose in Sansa’s hand.

The smile her sister gives her is as bright as the sun. “Thank you! It’s beautiful!”

Sansa has a piece of fabric on her lap, it looks like a bonnet but it is tiny, as if for a child. Sewing bores her terribly anyway, so she’s about to leave when Sansa says, “I’m bored, let’s do something to pass the time. Let me braid your hair.”

She meant to say no but instead she sits on the floor by Sansa’s feet. “Your hair is so shiny!. You should wear it down sometimes.”

“It’s not as pretty as yours.”

“Nonsense,” Sansa says, “it’s wonderfully dark, and so silky! Just like Jon’s!”

Arya notices Sansa blushes and bits her lower lip, but for a blissful moment no one says a word, they just sit there by the fire, Arya’s head in Sansa’s lap. 

“I miss mother,” Arya says.

“Me too,” Sansa says, tying a ribbon to her thin braids. “Arya, there’s some news.”

“Daenerys?” She asks.

“No.” Sansa lowers her gaze, “I am with child.”

Arya remains very still, not quite understanding her sister’s words. She’s about to ask how it is possible when the remembers Sansa doesn’t sleep in her own chambers but in Jon’s. “Oh,” is all she manages to say, like some foolish girl. Everything suddenly makes sense, the giggling, the singing, the sewing, and Jon’s idiotic smile.

“Yes,” Sansa says, “it wasn’t a cold after all.”

“Does Jon ...?” 

“Know? Yes, I told him this morning,” .

Arya picks the winter rose and turns it in her hand. “How far along are you?”.

“A moon at least.”

“You must hurry then, you must marry before you show” 

“Oh, I don’t know. He said he wouldn’t ask me again.” Sansa says as she picks up the tiny bonnet and starts embroidering something blue.

“Again? What do you mean? He asked already?”.

“Yes.”

“And...?”

“I said no.” Sansa whispers.

Arya can’t believe these two. She gets up and puts the rose in her sisters fiery hair, just above her right ear and says “I think you have to ask him.”

“Me?” Sansa gasps.

“I believe is the costume among regnant Queens to ask.”

“I’m not a Queen.” Says Sansa.

“Not yet. Who do you think the northern men will choose once we are back home?” 

“Jon. Jon is our king.” She says stubbornly.

“Sansa,” she lowers her voice, trying to talk some sense into her. “Jon bent the knee and besides, he’s not Ned Stark’s son. Brandon said he does not want to rule Winterfell, so is yours by right.”

“Well,” Sansa says, “we will see about that” and she keeps on stitching. A child. Her sister will have a baby, a Stark. An heir to Winterfell. Sansa’s baby. And Jon’s. Unbelievable.

As if called by their thoughts Jon steps inside without knocking on the door, “oh,” he seems surprised to see her. Or maybe it’s the stupid braids.

”I wanted to show you a raven I just got” he says as he walks to Sansa, “it’s from Brandon.”


	8. To plant trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Brandon’s POV. I found it very difficult to write 😫😫 but above all I was trying to make sense of Jon’s birth and the prophecies associated with it that the show didn’t even touch.

The Godswood at Riverrun looks nothing like the one back home. These trees are not as old, their trunks and branches still slim and flexible. The heart tree doesn’t have a carved face. The truce between the First Men and the Children couldn’t save all of them but at least some remain. A gust of wind moves the leaves and he sees mother standing right there, her hair in a side braid, she’s wearing a thick dark cloak and she’s holding father’s arm.

Mother smiles, “Brandon,” she says as she hugs him, “did you have a good trip?”

He blinks and mother’s face is now Sansa’s. “As good as it could be.”

The man that looks like father walks to him, limping, and kisses him on the forehead. It’s Jon. Time no longer means much to him, jumping between now and then. But Jon’s grey gaze is always clear in his visions. Brandon smiles, the loud whisper of the trees confirms his visions back home. “The Prince that was promised” he says. Jon stares at him in confusion but Sansa is grinning.

“It’s a boy then?” She asks as she touches her belly.

“I don’t know,” Brandon looks at Jon, “I meant Jon.”

Jon’s eyes darken and he frowns, “I thought we have established that was Arya, she killed the Night King”.

Brandon stares at his face, his long Stark face, his lips and nose are sensual like Raeghar’s. The blood of the dragons runs in his veins, and the blood of the First Men. He needs help understanding. “Yes, Arya did her part well, Ice has been dealt with. Now we must deal with Fire.”

They both stand there looking puzzled, “Sansa, I must talk to Jon alone.” She gives him a nod and leaves.

Jon watches as she walks away and them turns his attention to the tree. He is not a very big man but he has broad shoulders and the strong arms of a warrior. Brandon realises he no longer feels pain for all those dreams of being a knight, for those hopes to have his own sword like father’s one day, it no longer matters to him they were all shattered in one sunny afternoon, the window of the broken tower looking smaller and smaller as he fell. He used to think he would be better off dead but the Gods decided to keep him alive. He may have changed, but he is still Brandon, a Stark and a Tully, isn’t he? Jon is also still himself, a son of ice and fire.

_His is the song___

The visions began as soon as Jon left with the dragon Queen, but all Brandon could see at the beginning was smoke, smoke and Lyanna’s bed of blood. One more, the trees kept telling him, there must be one more. He was still searching for clarity when a raven came with news. When Sansa heard King’s Landing had burnt she went to his chambers shaking like a little girl, asking him to see Jon in his visions. Once she was assured he was unharmed, she sat and waited patiently to be called to kneel. And called she was. Brandon took care of business all morning, reading ravens, working with the Maester on the books, immersed in all the trappings and nuisance of ruling. It didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, his brain was always agile since he was a little child. The nights he spent at the Godswood, listening some more, seeing through the smoke until it cleared.

He takes Jon’s hand in his, gently, as one would do with a child. It’s his right hand, the one he badly burnt at Castle Black. The scarring the fire left is still very visible and when Brandon touches him he can feel the damaged nerves that bother him when he’s tired. There’s also the headaches and the bad leg, he can feel his pain. 

_Our champion,_ say the trees, in their living voices than only he can hear.__

Jon will not understand, he will not believe, not at the beginning, but he must know, and he must choose, freely. If he chooses not to, the Gods may not find anyone else, and the enemy will win, but he still has to give him a choice. He is looking at him, expectant. 

“I’m so glad you are here Bran, I need your help planning the attack, the armies are ready, but we need you to see, to see into Daenerys’s camp, and we need to find a way to save the people.”

“Raeghar was wrong.” He interrupts him, “he read the prophecy wrong.”

“What do I have to do with prophecies?” He blurts out in his King in the North’s voice, “We have a battle coming at us! There’s no time for any of that!”

“Jon,” Brandon says calmly, “you need to listen once more.” 

Slowly, Jon sits on the roots of the tree that stick out of the ground. He kicks some snow with the heel of his boots, shoulders hunched, until he finally asks “what is it? What did you see in your vision?”

“I saw you.”

He carries on. “Your father...he misunderstood the prophecy concerning your birth, specially the most important part. You are the prince that was promised and you have to save us from the darkness.” 

Jon’s voice is filled with sadness, “I don’t believe in prophecies, Bran, and I’m not a saviour. I’m just a man. A man that has made very bad mistakes.”

_Our champion, _ the leaves whisper. __

Brandon thinks of Daenerys Targaryen, of how she was touched by R’hllor, how she came out of the pyre unburnt on that fateful day. “No, but she does.”

“Aye,” Jon sighs, “she does. Daenerys was told by Melisandre she was the princess that was promised and she believed her,” he snorts, “she told Stannis the same, and then me. All lies. I had refused her before but when my men stabbed me...” his voice is a bit shaky, “I didn’t ask her to do it, I didn’t ask for any of this, Ser Davos did what he thought was right but I want nothing to do with the Lord of Light, I serve him not, even if he brought me back.”

“The Lord of Light? You think he brought you back?”

Jon turns to him, “Yes, it was Melisandre, Ser Davos told me of her chanting and prayers and...” he hesitates, “who, then? if it wasn’t her god who?”

“You know who.” He replies, testing him. Jon had gifts, like all the Stark children. He is untaught, and maybe it’s too late, having spend all those years training with swords instead.

“No, I don’t” Jon looks annoyed, “why does it matter now?”

“You remember, I know you do.”

Jon is about to say something else but he pauses. He stares at the tree for a long moment and closes his eyes. “It was just a dream, Brandon, I had it once before too. Dreaming I am inside Ghost does not mean I am actually a wolf.”

“Dire wolf” Brandon says dryly. Jon keeps staring at the tree.

“Jon,” he tries again, “Ghost was sent to you for that moment, he was meant to be there, as Summer was there for me in that cave. The Lord of Light has no power over you, no true power over death, the people he brings back are damaged and his gifts are lies. It was your mother’s Gods that brought you back so you could fulfil your destiny.”

Jon is silent for a moment, his voice breaks, “Our Gods? I am not even sure I...still believe in them.”

“The Lord of light wishes to destroy the world by fire, to end Our Gods that give life. Long time ago our Gods saw this day and chose a champion to defeat the darkness, to stop those who worship Fire. The prophecy was that he will come from the blood of the First Men, born amidst salt and smoke, that he would also be of the blood that worships Fire, not to restore them to glory, but to end them.”

Jon’s eyes are darker than ever, with a hint of purple in them. “Are you telling me that thousands had to die, that my mother...” he gasps for air, “that my mother had to die so I could save the world? Then our Gods are as cruel as all the others” he grunts.

Pain.

“Jon” He stretches his hand to touch him. “May I?”

Jon gazes down as he leans forward and places his hand on his thigh. He can feel the power coming in and out of him, like waves. Everything stills right there.

“An arrow”. It’s not a question.

Jon blinks, both his rage and pain gone. “How did you...?”

“I don’t know. I discover something new every day, some new power. I can tell now how people feel, and I can tell when there is pain, in the body or otherwise. I wanted to see if I could help you with the leg.”

“You did. The pain is gone.” Jon says.

“I am glad. It won’t come back.”

Jon sits there, searching for an explanation in his eyes, “Is that, mmmm, what the Three-Eyed Raven is supposed to do? Heal people?”

When Meera said goodbye to him with such pain in her eyes, he didn’t have an answer for her, when Sansa asked him to be Brandon Stark again he didn’t have one either. It was meant for Jon all this time. 

“The power of the Gods is stronger North, where we have so many still standing, even beyond the Wall, but they are weaker in the South, where only a few Godswoods remain, like here, at Riverun. It’s not enough to protect those still standing, we need to plant more. As the trees grow their blood will bring life back, to the land and the people. You have a role to play, as I do.”

“You want me to kill her, don’t you?.” 

”It’s your choice.”

“I don’t care about myself, but...Sansa...?” His voice breaks.

Hope. All he wants is hope, Bran can feel it, he can see it in Jon’s eyes. A future. Telling him all he has seen happen will overwhelm him, but perhaps he can ease his fear a bit. Perhaps he does not need to know every detail of the long road ahead of him, but just one thing, something that will give him courage.

“Rest assure, the day will come you will hold your child in your arms”.

Jon sits upright, his shoulders lighter. “Thank you. I am glad we could talk.”

“Me too, Jon, me too.


	9. A wolf king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Sansa’s POV and then Jon’s at the end. Sam and Gilly are here. I am trying to show many lords are willing to rebel against Daenerys, unlike the show where apparently no one cared for freedom but Sansa. Riverrun receives some unexpected visitors. The Dothraki don’t follow the weak.

Gilly and Roslyn must be just a couple of years older than her, Sansa thinks, but at times she feels she is a hundred years older than them. Not that they haven’t had their share of pain and loss as well. She observes Lady Tully’s fine features and plump lips, she truly is a beauty, perhaps too thin for her liking but uncle Edmure is clearly in love with her. Sansa has noticed he constantly glances at her during meals, and his face softens when he says her name. Roslyn Tully knows only basic stitches but she has an eye for colour, she’s embroidering leaping trouts in three different shades of blue, circled by fire red roses on a cotton shirt.

“They are beautiful,” Sansa says, “gorgeous colours, my uncle will love it.”

“Thank you,” Roslyn says with a smile and nods to Sansa’s work, “I’m sure the Prince will be pleased with his too.”

They both look at her at once and Gilly chuckles a bit. Sansa contemplates the shirt in her hands as she traces the newly hemmed cuffs and collar with her fingers, she hadn’t said anything about Jon to them but then, who else will she be sewing a shirt for? She had almost finished, a simple straight stitch, white on white, but when she looks at the leaping trouts again she changes her mind and picks a deep blue thread from the basket at her feet. It will go well with his eyes, grey and blue.

They have fallen into a routine of sorts, with all these lords and ladies being hosted at Riverrun. Gendry arrived shortly after Arya with men and supplies that survived the lions and the dragons, the Knights of the Vale joined them too a few days ago with their army almost intact. Everyone breaks fast in their chambers, Sansa and Jon together, because she wakes up in his bed. 

She withdraws to her chambers for appearances sake and walks the few steps that separate them later at night when she thinks everyone is asleep, opens the door silently and gets under the furs. He’s seldom asleep, waiting for her, the bed is always warm, inviting, the sheets and pillows are filled with his smell and his long curls tickle Sansa’s nose when she holds him tight so she can feel his heartbeat.

Sometimes they fall asleep like this, holding each other, mimicking each other breathing, most nights in silence. The Gods didn’t make him a talkative man. But sometimes he asks her questions, shares a memory or laughs with her about something Arya said until they start yawning and they can’t keep their eyes open anymore. Other times he doesn’t let her sleep at all, taking her with a wild determination. His touch is gentle but there’s roughness in him. 

Maybe is all those years with the wildlings, maybe is just the wolf in him, but often Sansa gets up in the morning and finds some bruises, some soft bites in her neck or her thighs, or the flesh under her arms. And the things he can do with that mouth. Sansa had never screamed of pleasure before, and she has taken to bite a pillow hoping to muffle the sounds. She doesn’t know if her uncle has heard any rumours but the women in the castle have certainly picked it up. 

_I will show and then everyone will know___

_——————————————————————-_

That night at supper she is sitting at the bottom of the table like a guest of honour. Her uncle Edmure is hosting a formal supper every night, gold rimmed plates on the table and good wine. Jon sits on her right, Arya on her left, Gendry next to her sister, then Sam and Gilly. With his father and brother gone it should have fallen on Sam to be Lord of Horn Hill but he declined, so his sister is now the seventeen year old Lady Tarly, and ruling Horn Hill with her mother’s help. Sam and Gilly arrived a week ago, representing their house.

Sitting on Lord Edmure’s right, across the table from Lady Tully, Lord Royce drinks his wine quietly, wrapped in a rich fox fur. The weather has been terrible the last couple of days, strong winds and a blizzard, and her uncle had to send a servant twice for more wood for the great fireplace that warms this hall. Lord Edmure looks at Sam as the servants fill everyone’s cups with more mulled wine.

“Maester Samwell, what say the Citadel about this winter? How much longer?” he asks.

Samwell stutters a bit, “I...I’m not actually a Maester... I didn’t quite...hmm...finished.” He looks around the table nervously.

Jon turns to Lord Edmure, “Samwell is a good friend of mine, he was needed at Winterfell for the battle and he was clever enough to know what mattered more than anything else. I trust him like a brother.”

“Or course,” says Lord Edmure, “everyone in Westeros owes the North a great debt, none of us would be here if those...creatures hadn’t been defeated at Winterfell.” He takes a gulp from his cup,“I was sorry I couldn’t contribute with any men, I was busy expelling the last Lannister invaders and reorganising the armies of the Riverlands. After what happened to the Freys there was much order and law needed in these lands as you can imagine.” 

Jon, Sansa and Gendry all look at Arya at once, who is drinking her wine looking as innocent as a dove. 

“Well, it was Arya Stark who killed the Night King, ending the battle before we were overwhelmed,” Gendry says, shifting a bit in his chair.

“Indeed,” Edmure Tully raises his cup, “your mother would have been proud of you, to Arya Stark, the hero of Winterfell!”

“The hero of Winterfell!” They all raise their cups in her direction, Arya grins and looks at Gendry and then to Jon who is beaming at her.

“Yes, Lady Arya did wonderfully,” says Lord Royce, “but it wouldn’t have been possible without everyone else, without the armies, the allies, even...” he clears his throat and goes on, “even without her, without her dragons.” 

He turns to Jon and says, “you were right to do it. We needed them.” He lifts his cup to him. “Here’s to Jon Snow!”

“To Jon Snow!” They all toast.

Jon turns to look at Sansa, and she grabs his left hand and squeezes it in a reassuring gesture. He stands up and says, “thank you Lord Royce, it’s generous of you to say so.” 

He pauses a second, gathering his thoughts, “What happened at Winterfell was everyone’s victory, we did it together, but nothing would have been possible without Sansa, she alone managed to feed and keep warm thousands of soldiers and civilians.”

Her hand is warm in his. “Sansa, we are so lucky to have you, you are fierce and a great lady like your mother was. To Lady Sansa.”

“To Lady Sansa,” they all echo Jon’s words. 

Sansa blushes but raises her cup, smiling at him. Jon drinks and puts his cup on the table, then he leans down and kisses her on the forehead while Roslyn and Gilly exchange knowing looks. Uncle Edmure observes them with curiosity. It’s all well and warm and everyone seems satisfied, almost happy. Suddenly, a servant whispers in Lord Edmure‘s ear and he excuses himself from the table.

Sansa can’t hear the conversations anymore, a sinking feeling in her stomach worrying her. Perhaps it’s nothing, she tells herself, her stomach hasn’t been well for days now. 

When Lord Edmure returns he announces, “my lords, we have some unexpected visitors.”

The men leave the table together and Lady Roslyn suggests the ladies join her in her chambers. Roslyn and Gilly turn towards the Lady’s chambers but she makes up her mind and takes the steps to the battlements instead. Arya is a few steps ahead of her.

The night is crispy with cold and a bright moon is out, high in the sky. Before she reaches them she hears Gendry gasp, “Dothraki?”

“Are they attacking us?” Says Sam, a bit breathless from the climb.

“Not a chance,” says Arya, “not with twenty men only”

Sansa looks down and the height makes her a bit dizzy. There they are, perfectly outlined against the moonlight, Dothraki mounted on their magnificent animals, wearing their winter furs, araks tied to their waists, a collective nightmare of the Westerosi.

Her words startle everyone, “they have come for Jon.”

Jon looks at her, his dark eyes somehow warming her, “Sansa go back into the castle.”

“No, I won’t let her take you away.”

“The Prince is my guest, and she is no Queen of mine,” her uncle assured them, “she will take no one.”

When the Dothraki speak their guttural words they sound like threats to her. She turns to see Jon’s face under the bright moon. He is staring back at her.

“ We should talk to them, see what they want.” Jon urged.

“No way,” says Gendry, “more could be hiding in the bushes, if we open the gates...”

“The gates will remain closed, I will call the archers,” says uncle Edmure.

“No need, if it’s me they want I will talk to them.” Jon insists.

“I’m going with you,” says Arya, touching her dagger with the tip of her fingers.

“I don’t need bloody nannies,” Jon retorts.

“I’m going,”

“Me too,” says Gendry, who is holding a small axe.

“And me,” says Sam, surprising everyone. They stand there looking at him as he explains, “I, I have picked up some Dothraki from a book about Essos Gilly and I found at Riverrun’s library.”

After much discussion, when Jon steps outside the castle and walks slowly to the riders, Arya and Gendry are on either side of him and Sansa, Sam, Gilly and Edmure Tully a few steps behind. The battlements are full of archers Lord Edmure called, big fires burn in giant pots every few steps, ready to burn some Dothraki if needed. The one who seems to be their leader speaks again, his foreign words unintelligible to her, but when Sam speaks back to them, they seem to understand each other.

“Ver khal?” echoes Sam, “I think it means wolf?”

“Wolf?” asks Arya, “there aren’t any wolves this far south, they’re tricking us!”

Sam asks the men some more questions but he seems more confused than before, when Gilly suddenly says, “it’s you! Jon! It’s you, you are the wolf king!”

Jon turns to her, “I’m no king, Gilly”

“Wait!” Sam blurts, “you were proclaimed Prince at King’s Landing, and they all saw Ghost at Winterfell, it makes perfect sense for them to call you that.”

“I don’t care what they call me, just ask them what they want, Sam” Jon grunts.

After more talking, Sam says, “he says he, hmm, needs ‘ rhaggat eveth’ but I’m not sure what that would be, I think horses, maybe?”

Gilly steps in asking them more questions in their strange words until she says triumphantly, “ships!, they want ships!”

Jon seems to reflect for a moment and then he calmly asks her, “Gilly, ask him why he left his Queen”

Gilly asks, and then translates, “something about a dragon, about a stallion, I’m not sure, sorry.”

No one moves, expectant, until Jon says in a whisper, “they left her, they only followed her for her dragons and they’re gone. They have betrayed her.”

“And now they want to go home,” says Arya, “they came to you to ask for ships to go back home.”

“I have no ships,” says Jon, “Gilly, tell them that, the ships we have are to take the soldiers back to the North, they cannot have them.”

“You can have my ships, my lord,” says her uncle, “one less threat to Westeros if they leave, how many would they need?”

After painfully translating and gesturing, a ship is committed to take them back to their lands and they agree to leave in peace. It turns out there were only a hundred Dothraki, counting their women and children that were hiding nearby. Many starved in the city or died of cold sickness. Although they can’t get more details from them, it’s evident chaos has erupted in the capital, fueled by hunger. Lord Edmure lets them settle for the night right outside the gates. Later, back in the Great Hall they agree to call on a meeting soon, and send ravens asking more lords and ladies to join the forces against Daenerys Targaryen. Although she’s exhausted worry keeps her awake, tossing in her bed. They are in open rebellion now, there’s no turning back.

——————————————————————

Jon gets up early and heads for the latrines. It’s so cold he can see his breath. He runs into Sam on his way back to the keep. He seems cold, his cheeks red and puffy in this cold wind. 

“Sam. A word?”.

They have been avoiding each other for days, tiptoeing around the remains of their friendship. He follows Sam around a corner until they are standing under a balcony, guarded of the wind by a column and an arch.

“I...I need your advice, Sam. You know why we are here. I need to make decisions, we, the North and our allies, and soon.”

Sam scrutinizes his face. “Mmm. Are you afraid the lords will back off of war? That won’t happen, you will secure the alliance of the Vale and Riverun as soon as you marry Sansa. They will proclaim you King and...”

“King?. Seven hells, Sam, why would I want to be King? I want to go home, if...I survive this war too, I want to go North. It’s where I belong.” He sighs, “and she won’t marry me anyway.”

Sam whispers and shuffles closer to Jon, “But Jon, I...mmm, have being asking around, discreetly, of course, and, well, as Rhaegar’s son you are the obvious choice for many of the lords.” 

“Sam.” He groans as his stomach twists in a knot.

Sam stares at him with his frank eyes. When they met at the Night’s Watch Sam was true born, but despised by his own father. The people that don’t know him well may not think a great deal of the portly, stuttering man, but he is clever, very clever, and braver than he thinks himself to be.

Jon envies him.

Nobody will try to make him king and he can live his live in peace, enjoy his wife and children.

“All right. I suppose there could be an alternative, perhaps some sort of vote, like the Night’s Watch’s.” Sam wonders, “It would be unusual for Westeros but, it could work. I wonder...do you think Brandon would want to be present at the meeting?”

“Bran?”

“As an advisor. We need someone that has no interest in this war, someone neutral, to give a fair judgement. I think it will reassure the lords and ladies”.

“Sam, they don’t know him, he’s a stranger to everyone.”

“Does not make him less wise”.

Jon pauses. Sam has spent more time talking to his brother than him. When he came back to Winterfell, with the Wall already down, there was never any time. He barely spoke to anybody, and Bran was always out there by the trees while he busied himself with war preparations. As odd as their last conversation was, he knows he can trust him, as much as he can trust Sansa and Arya.

”He did come all the way down here just to tell me his visions. I suppose we can ask him”.

“We should talk to him now. I will go and wake him up and we will meet in his chambers.” Sam makes a move to leave. 

“Sam.” 

Shame burns deep in his chest. “You are my friend. A good friend, and a brave man. More than that. You are my brother. You are generous and clever and...have always being on my side, always, no matter...” he chokes.

Tiny snowflakes whistle and drift around them, singing, and Jon takes a deep breath and carries on. “I am sorry for what she did to your father, and your brother. It wasn’t right. It was cruel, and I should’ve said so before. I am sorry.”

Silently, Sam nods and pats his shoulder before walking away.


	10. Words and Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen, Sansa is in a patriarchal society, so it makes sense she is conflicted between her sexual desires and her duty as a lady of her position. Warning: some mention of Ramsay. So it’s angsty but it ends well I promise. Thank you so much for reading!

Sansa

Sansa sighs in frustration as her fingers undo the red stitches. Her eyes sting but she takes a deep breath, she does not want to cry. She’s been trying to sew a dragon on Jon’s doublet, a small one by the collar to mirror the white dire wolf she already finished, but she can’t seem to get it right. She left Lady Roslyn’s chambers saying she had a headache, which she does, but to tell the truth she just wanted to be alone. It’s easier to be mad at the stubborn embroidery than at herself. Or at Jon. Or her uncle. She can’t really blame him for his reaction and she truly should have been more careful, a lady of her station cannot yield to her desires like that. Duty first her mother would have said.

She always wanted to do the right thing, to do as expected of her, but after everything that has happened to her, after all the kind knights and princes of her dreams revealed themselves to be monsters she is lucky to still have a heart, broken and mended ten times over, but full of love to give. What good is honour if one is alone? What good is virtue if someone like Ramsay can take her for a toy? Tears of anger come to her eyes as the lump in her throat grows tighter. A bastard. That’s what Lord Edmure called her baby, but what does he know of a woman’s heart? She wipes her tears with her hand before resting it on her little bump. The feeling of the life inside her brings a smile to her lips. Smiling through tears. A first for her she thinks.

She’s threaded her needle, ready to try again when she hears him approach the door. She recognises his steps as she has learned his other little mannerisms. The way he squints when he’s upset, the way his right hand instinctively reaches for the pommel of his sword when he’s not wearing Longclaw. His little childish yawn when he’s waking up, all curled up by her side, his long eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to open his eyes. Is this what married couples are like?. 

Jon smiles as he walks inside without knocking, and he puts his hand on her shoulder, “You shouldn’t exhaust yourself, aren’t you tired of sewing all day?”

“I’m almost done, look!” She holds up the grey doublet for him to see. 

“For me? You already gave me a shirt, and trousers, Sansa.”

“A Prince should look the part. And also, your hair needs trimming.”

Jon says nothing as he grabs a stool and sits, his right hand holding both of her. He closes his eyes and swallows hard and Sansa’s heart begins to race. “When I talked to Brandon in the Godswood, he said I...”

“Do you still believe you can convince her? Talk her out of more fire and blood?”

Jon nods, “I do.”

“She won’t fall for it Jon, she’s not stupid, she knows the lords are rebelling and when you show up with an army to surround her capital she will be done listening to your sweet words, she will kill you.”

“All I need is for her to open the gates, to surrender the city”

“Oh, well, if is only that, then I’m sure she will be very cooperative, just as she was in Winterfell, right?” She needs a moment to gather herself before she spits all the anger building inside her, but when she gets up and turns away from him the room starts spinning wildly. 

Jon’s arms catch her before she hits the floor and he holds her tight. “Sansa! I will call the Maester”

“No! I’m fine, it’s nothing.” She grabs his shoulders for support and straightens herself, his eyes are full of worry. “I just need a moment.”

Jon lowers her to the chair gently and she closes her eyes, breathing slowly, waiting for the room to stop spinning. He presses something cool onto her forehead but as her anger subsides fear creeps in. Fear to loose him. Why are the Gods so cruel? What have they done so wrong that every Stark man she has ever cared for must loose their lives?. Jon squeezes her hand and takes the cloth from her forehead. 

“Better?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t have the strength right now to discuss the dragon queen so it will have to wait.“I told my uncle I am with child. He wasn’t happy.”

Jon smiles sadly, “No, I don’t suppose he would. I’m sorry, Sansa, I never wanted this, we were wrong to do it.”

“No” she spits her words, “don’t say that, my son is not a mistake.” Silence falls between them for a moment. When she looks up again, Jon’s eyes are red, his jaw clenched.

“I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just that I promised myself that I would never put a child through it, it’s no life for a child.”

“You are not a bastard, never were.”

Jon’s voice is a whisper, and she sees real tears in his eyes. “He was already married Sansa, we can’t keep denying it, I have thought about this long and I think my mother shouldn’t have disobeyed her father, breaking her betrothal and running away like that was wrong. All those deaths could have been avoided if she had done her duty.”

Duty. Honour. Wind and Words. “I cannot bring myself to judge her, Jon, talk of duty is all very good until our hearts get in the way.”

He sits straight, looking at her with those deep wise eyes. “Maester Aemon once told me that. He said the Gods had fashioned us for love and that it was our tragedy to be forced to choose between our duty and those we love.”

She nods and squeezes his hand, his big rough hand capable of so much death when wrapped around a sword and of such tenderness on her skin, or grabbing her hair. She could look at him forever, bed him forever, love him forever and have his children. Snow, Stark, Targaryen, a bastard or a King, it does not matter to her.

Fuck the gods. “Marry me, Jon.”

He drops his jaw in shock, “but you...you said you didn’t want to. I asked you already and you said no.”

“I changed my mind.”

Jon’s eyes are so dark they give her chills, “Are you sure? Every unmarried lord in the North will fight for your hand, you could have any man you wanted.”

“You. I want you.”

He stares at her for an instant “Yes.”

They hug so tight she can feel his heartbeat against her chest. “Go trim those curls then, I’m not marrying a wildling.”


	11. Family, Duty, Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a double POV chapter, Arya and then Jon. I really wanted Arya and Sansa to bond again and to make Brandon a bit more human. I’m just a sucker for happy Starks and lots of pretty clothes!

She thinks she would like living at Riverrun if she couldn’t live at Winterfell. The air is clean and humid and the movement in the castle is so frantic she could never get bored. Outside the walls of her uncle’s home a few Dothraki warriors camp with their women and children, waiting for the Tully ship to be ready. Arya sometimes walks among them, observing mostly, patting the beautiful mares or helping a girl carry a bucket of water.

The children’s fear of her subsided as soon as she procured them some candy from the castle kitchens, their wide eyes and easy smiles needing no translation. “We are all the same,” she thinks, “we all long for home.”

In a few days the mood at the castle has changed dramatically, the lords have started planning for the siege of the capital now that the tide is turning against her. The betrayal of the very few Dothraki that survived Winterfell may not have made a difference to Daenerys anymore, and she still has most of her Unsullied, but she has no supplies from the Reach and her ruling is questioned by everyone. With the combined armies of Westeros and no Drogon in sight, her days are numbered.

Today, however, they are all getting a respite from war. The whole castle seems to move in haste under the orders of Lady Roslyn. Arya finds it incredible than a wedding has been prepared in just three days. Ladies, lords, servants, no one has a moment to rest, no one but Sansa. She took a long bath and three maids are brushing her long shiny hair when she walks in there. Her sister looks all flushed from her bath, or maybe is her pregnancy, who knows.

“Nice dress”

“Thanks, Arya. Gilly lent it to me, all my dresses are too dark, too Northern, she said, and this is a Tully wedding. It’s a bit short for me but at least the pleated skirt will hide my belly.”

She thinks Sansa’s stomach looks as flat as usual but she likes the long sleeves and the deep blue of the dress that matches her sister’s eyes. So beautiful her sister. Her auburn and blue sister. At times she looks so much like her mother. Arya seldom thinks of her, but when she does is always a sweet memory, the years have washed away every misunderstanding, real or imagined. “Jon will die when he sees you.”

Sansa chuckles and then winces.

“Sorry, my lady” says one of the maids, dropping the brush. 

“Move! I’ll do it!”

“Arya, is all right, she didn’t mean to pull so hard.”

“Off you go! Shush!”

Sansa looks incredulous and she feels a bit lost at the beginning, but eventually her fingers remember the twists and turns, the warmth of mother’s hands guiding her, and soon the mirror shows three thick braids that she wraps around the back of Sansa’s head in the style their mother liked. She gently brushes the rest in a cascade down Sansa’s shoulders all the way to her waist.

“It’s beautiful, Arya.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear it down?”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate since I’m not a maiden.”

“I certainly hope you are not. How would you explain the baby then?”

Sansa laughs loudly this time, but Arya notices tears in her eyes. “I miss Mom.”

“Me, too. She married here, you know? Before father left for war.”

“She did.” Sansa gets up and hugs her, and she leans on her shoulder before breaking the embrace. 

“I’ll better go help Jon.”

“He’s fine, Sam was going to help him.”

“Sam? He really is in trouble then, he has no idea how to braid Jon’s hair.” Arya can still hear Sansa’s laughter in the hallway but before she can knock on Jon’s door he opens it and grabbing her by the arm pulls her into the room.

“Thank the Gods you are here, Arya, I need a favour.”

—————————————————————————

Jon

His hands are sweaty but he cannot stop smiling, he thinks of her smile, of her hair, of her voice, of the noises she makes when she... 

“Hey!” Sam pats him on the back, “are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be”

Sam makes a joke about him finally knowing where to put it that he cannot hear well because he’s distracted looking around for Arya. The courtyard is buzzing with activity, servants setting tables and torches, and big open pits where pigs and goats will be roasted for the feast, the castle kitchens not big enough for them. It was Lady Roslyn’s idea to invite small folk, they will be allowed inside the castle after the ceremony. There was a bit of a disagreement about it earlier, with Lord Tully adamant they’ll marry under the Seven although Jon had suggested the Godswood with its ancient trees. Brandon had put and end to the discussion with a smile, “how about both?”.

He breaths with relief as Arya walks to him with a bundle folded in her arms. “Got it?”

“Got it” She smiles satisfied. “Jon?”

“Yes?” 

“If you ever hurt Sansa again I will cut your throat in your sleep.”

“I’m sure you will, little sister.” 

Lord Tully approaches them, “it’s time my lord.”

Jon walks to the Godswood, Sam walks behind him holding the folded cloak Arya gave him. As the crowd opens up to let them past, Jon delivers a demure smile here and there and nods at known faces with what he hopes is a very princely manner. Brandon and the Septon the Tully called for the ceremony are already waiting for them at the heart tree, its branches heavy with icicles.

“You Starks bring the winter with you”, jokes Lady Roslyn as he walks by her. 

Jon nods to her and stands by the tree, Sam on his right. Although he’s not wearing a coat he’s beginning to sweat under his new doublet, grey dyed leather trimmed with black fur, a tiny red dragon and a white dire wolf face each other in its collar. His gloves are kid leather dyed black, a present from Lord Glover, “I had them made for my son, Waymar, he never got to wear them,” he said. They fit him perfectly, up to the tiny gold buttons that close them at his wrists. He’s never had anything so luxurious in his life. Only the boots are his old ones, polished until they shined.

Jon is staring at the tree, trying to stifle his nerves when a collective gasp startles him. The crowd murmurs delighted as Sansa walks to him, a vision in blue, holding Arya’s hand. The light of dozens of lanterns seem to set Sansa’s hair on fire, and it takes his breath away. Everyone sings a hymn that Jon cannot follow of course, but fortunately Sam has already told him what he has to say. He barely hears the Septon, engrossed in watching Sansa, but when he says,“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” Jon turns to Sam that hands him the cloak.

It’s a blue cloak, lined with grey fur, the pattern of tiny leaping fish looks faded in parts. Sansa smiles as she turns her back to him but the smile freezes in her lips when she looks at the cloak. As he lays it across her shoulders he whispers in her ear, “Lady Roslyn gave it to me, it is...old, but I thought it was beautiful, and the grey fur reminded me of the Stark sigil.” Sansa blinks and then nods, turning to face him slowly. Jon fumbles with the fish shaped brooch that ties the cloak to the front and gazes into her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, Jon.”

“Hold hands” says the Septon. “Let it be known that Sansa Stark and Jon Snow are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” As he ties the ribbon around their hands he says “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

Jon thinks he has never seen Sansa’s eyes more blue, or her lips more red as he hears their voices echo one another. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days”. The Septon moves aside and Brandon begins. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?

Arya takes a step forward, “Sansa, of House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true born and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Jon Snow, son of Lyanna Stark, Who gives her?”

“Arya, of House Stark, her sister.”

Brandon smiles, “Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”

“I take this man.”

Jon holds her hand as they kneel together in front of the heart tree. A light breeze through the frozen branches makes a melody of ice and when they stand up together he feels warmth in his heart like he never has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to take a bit longer than I thought and definitely my estimate of chapters will change, but I feel l know where I’m going with this. Comments are welcome!


	12. War amongst ourselves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s POV, set right after the wedding. This is a chapter with a very important conversation between our newlyweds. Although they are in love with each other, “realistic” couple relationships are about communication, and negotiation. I want Jon to stop acting like a lone gunner and listen to his wifey. Also, there are a couple of references to Littlefinger here, but I do not think Sansa is still influenced by him, the way I see it, he was a clever player and she is using his ideas for good, to protect her pack. Consider this a warning of manipulative/ dark Sansa.

They walk slowly, the silent branches looking down on them, heavy with snow. Jon guides her to avoid the puddles and the roots sticking out of the frozen ground. He seems worried, deep in his thoughts. That morning Jon woke her up with feathery kisses on her forehead, on her nose. He was very warm and his beard tickled her. In a daze, she realized that this wedding morning she had woken up tired, but happy and safe. Third time is the charm. After breaking their fast Jon suggested to walk in the Godswood and she put on her thick stockings and her best cloak and grabbed the arm he offered her.

“I have been meaning to talk to you about what Brandon told me and...about my plans to go...parlay with her.”

_Men in my family don’t do well in the South_.

Her tongue freezes in her mouth and she says nothing.

“I know you would prefer an assassin.” He goes on. “I just don’t want Arya to go”.

“I don’t want her to go either.”

Jon sighs. “I am so glad we agree on that.”

“If something happens to her neither you and I will forgive ourselves, Jon.” The image of Rickon’s limp body tugs at her heart. “I will talk to her.”

Jon runs a hand over his face. “I think it should be me. We really didn’t talk properly when I came back to Winterfell. She...resents that.”

“You didn’t talk properly to any of us.”

He looks down and puts his hand on her belly, barely a slop there.

“I know.”

In her dreams her husband was perfect, and she lived in a perfect picture with pups and children. But this is not a song. This is a real man, a man with flaws, a man she has chosen freely, knowingly. The songs don’t tell you any of this, that you will love, and fail, and forgive, and learn to trust again. That sometimes it hurts. They resume their walk in silence, a distant stream the only sound.

“Jon, I...” she hesitates. “I understand you were trying to protect all of us, and win a war.” She hates sounding whiny, “But, I don’t like feeling left out, and that you get to make all the decisions for our family without asking me. It’s not fair. It didn’t work before and it won’t now.”

Jonmulls over her words. She stops when he does, and he turns to her and holds both her hands. “I never thought I will marry. Being a bastard and...later a brother of the Night’s Watch. You are more than I ever dared to dream of.” He smiles. “I don’t know how to be a good husband but I want to learn. I will do better.”

She smiles back.

“What do you think we should do?.” He asks.

She wants to be selfish. She wants to thank Lord Royce once more and flee to the North with Jon and Bran, and Arya. Leave the Riverlands on their own to worry about Unsullied and winter and...food. Truth is, she couldn’t possibly run away from that. She pulls Jon along, the sound guiding her to the stream. It still runs, but there is thin ice already forming on top. She looks around, wondering at the perfect ice crystals hanging from the trees, at the pure whites and the stillness. A picture from a book, a fleeting peace.

_Everyone is your enemy. Everyone is your friend_.

“We cannot leave it to her good faith. We need a guarantee that she won’t kill the envoys.”

Jon lifts an eyebrow, questioning.

“We need someone inside.”

It takes him a moment. “You know him better, but I don’t think Tyrion cares much for peace.”

“Tyrion cares only for himself, Jon.” She grabs his face with both hands, “He would do anything to save his own skin. He’s not stupid, he knows she’s lost, and payment for his crimes still awaits.”

Jon stares at her and wraps his arms around her in a silent reply. She’s warm. Very warm. He shakes his head as if he could shake his gloomy thoughts. “I am sorry for ruining the morning after our wedding with talks of war. Worst husband ever”.

She laughs, “Oh, Jon, you are not even the worst of my husbands.”

He sighs. “You didn’t want to marry me. Before. You did it because...people would talk. Do you regret it?”

“You have given me what I have always wanted, what I dreamt of... you’ve have given me this...” she touches her belly. “I regret nothing.”

“I love you”.

“I love you too Jon”.

He kisses her, and fear unhands her heart for a moment.

“Bran told me it will be all right”. He offers.

“He did?”

The smile Jon gives her softens his features, easing the worry lines on his face and he looks young, so young. She smiles back but warmth has fled her chest, and in her mind she is fighting every possible battle.


	13. Valar morghulis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya’s POV. Listen, I love Arya, she’s cool and has ninja skills, but guess what, she’s a child. A traumatized child. I want her to heal. I want her to stop killing and live her life. In this chapter she finally has a real conversation with Jon (thanks for nothing season 8). Mentions of past trauma. A bit of Gendrya at the beginning because they are my second favorite ship.

Gendry counts shields and swords and writes down in a piece of parchment with a scraggly pen. His brows frown in concentration, he still struggles with his letters a bit. She thinks it may be more difficult to learn them if one starts as a grown man and not a child. She takes another bite at her apple and watches him move. She was hoping they could finally have some time for themselves but Gendry has been charged with armoring thousands of men, and he’s taking it seriously. Too seriously.

She spits the apple seeds in her mouth, hitting Gendry’s chest. He grunts but doesn’t look at her. “Don’t act like a child”.

“I am a child”.

He smiles a little and looks at her with those deep blue Baratheon eyes. “Right. You didn’t seem a child that time you jumped on me at Winterfell’s armory”.

“I jumped on you?” She tries to sound offended but she fails. “I remember it differently, Baratheon.”

They never really talked. There was always a battle or revenge, or something more important and, they never really talked after that, after Gendry told her that he loved her.

“As you wish, my lady, I am not one to kiss and tell”.

Arya jumps off the barrel she was sitting on and slaps his shoulder hard. “Don’t call me lady!”

Gendry’s laughter carries across the armory. “What should I call you then?”

“I don’t know. I want to do things, to go to places, to explore, ladies don’t get to go anywhere, I want more.” She’s pleading, hoping he understands even if she doesn’t. She doesn’t know where or when but she knows she must leave. Leave and see the sky. The ocean. Maybe the ocean. He looks at the parchment in his hand again, and then turns and grabs something from a table behind him. A minute passes, maybe two, until he turns back to her.

“Arya”.

“What?”

He takes a deep breath and puts an object in her hand. “Wherever you go...just...be careful, all right?”

——————————————————————————

She walks away with a lump in her throat made of unsaid goodbyes, clutching Gendry’s gift in her left hand when she runs into Jon. He’s been looking for her. They walk together quietly, their steps taking them to the Godswood in silent agreement. A blanket of snow covers the floor of the woods, muffling their footsteps.

She breaks the silence first. “I know you don’t want me to kill her but I think you are just being stubborn.”

“Can you let me explain? Just hear me out first, then you can curse me all you want, I promise.” He gives her a sad smile.

She nods.

“I know you are not my little sister anymore. You’ve grown. But is more than that, it’s that you are...different. Everything you went through, it changed you.”

“That could be said of all of us.”

Jon stops her with a hand on her shoulder. “I know how to kill, Arya, it’s the easiest thing to do for the likes of you and I but...don’t you want to be free of it?”

_Free_?

If she closed her eyes right now she could see each face, old, young, poor, rich, guilty or...not. She wants to scream. To make him understand. They killed our family, Jon, they put Grey Wind’s head on his head, they took, and took, and then we got our turn.

She realises she can’t stop because she doesn’t know how.

“It was justice.” Her words float foreign in the frigid air.

Jon looks away from her, staring at the tree. “She’s not yours, Arya.” He rocks on his feet a little, still not looking at her. “I have to finish what I started. Do you understand?”.

She misses the old Jon, the one that messed her hair and called her little sister, and laughed at her silliness. She misses the days when she played with wooden swords and scrapped her knees. Father’s eyes, and mother’s hands.

Something stings at her eyes. Her nose is runny.

_Arry. Cat. A girl. Wolf child_.

I am not a child, she wants to howl, I am a woman, I have laid with man. You don’t know what I am, what I have done, you don’t understand, you weren’t there, father wasn’t, Sansa wasn’t. Just me. I was alone.

Alone.

She does not realize she’s crying until she feels Jon’s arms around her, his furs tickling her nose, his shoulders muffling her sobs.

Sometimes wounds hurt more when they are healing.

—————————————————————

“You are a terrible liar”.

He looks at her confused. After she calmed down they walked aimlessly amongst the trees, talking about Brandon, about Rickon, about Sansa. Slowly, hesitantly, he told her Daenerys had insisted he stayed in King’s Landing to guarantee Sansa’s good behaviour and he agreed. At times she was sweet and cheerful, and called him family. Most of the time, though, she talked about how much had Sansa disrespected her, and rambled a lot about three treasons she had seen in a vision.

“Daenerys will know if you are lying.” She explains as they sit under a tree. “Tell her the truth. Or part of it. Gain her trust so you can get close enough and do it.” She is flipping the tiny dagger in her hand as she speaks. Gendry must have spent a lot of time working on it, the smaller the piece, the harder to make, and this one is perfect, even to the little ears and the fur.

“It may not come to that if she agrees to peace talks. Besides, she’ll be surrounded by guards”.

“You can deny it all you want, but I know what she is, and so do you.”

Jon doesn’t meet her eyes. She insists. “Meet her in private, in her chambers, and after you have done it...run”. She takes a deep breath. “If her soldiers catch you they won’t even give you a trial.”

She is quiet for a moment, the dagger still flying in the air between catches. She wears Needle on her belt too, even inside, even for meals. Everyone looks at her weirdly, Lord Edmure too, not that she cares. Sometimes she wonders how different her life would have been if she hadn’t learned with Syrio, or she hadn’t gone to Braavos, she wonders what she would be doing now if her mother had lived, if Robb hadn’t...

_Swift as a deer_.

“I hope your sword won’t be slowing you down too much, you are not the fastest of runners”.

“Don’t worry, she allows no weapons in her presence, so that won’t be a problem.” He blurts.

She catches the dagger in mid air and stills herself.


	14. Realms of men.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa’s POV. The show’s idea of the lords choosing a magical monarch with super powers is nonsense imo. I have absolutely nothing against Bran but a different, more “democratic” form of government makes more sense. This chapter is mostly politics. Btw, Lord Edmure was a joke in the show but I think he should be far more politically relevant, and Samwell Tarly too. Although this fic is mostly show wise, I included some “wolf dreams” because of course Sansa is a warg like all the other Starks in the books. Mention of Lady’s and Robb’s death.

Jon.

He has been wearing the tiny dagger strapped to his left leg right beneath his knee, perfectly concealed in his boot. Gendry had just given it to Arya, a shrapnel of Valyrian steel he mounted on a pretty wolf head made of silver. It’s beautiful and dainty, something a lady might carry for protection hidden in her sleeve, no one will think to look for it on you, Arya said.

“Consider this my gift, like Needle,” she added.

Strangely, he feels almost light, knowing he does not carry this weight alone, knowing Brandon, Sansa and Arya know what he is planning, knowing they are his pack.The thought quiets his thoughts as he looks around at the people assembled in the Great Hall. Lord Edmure presides, Sam is there to write everything down. They have been going on for a while, giving everyone an equal chance to talk and make their position clear.

“I never bent the knee to her”, huffed Lord Royce, “the Vale does not recognize Targaryen rule.”

Some other lords were less bold, having already been to King’s Landing to swear fealty, trying to decide if it was safe to rebel against her. Others feared the return of her beast. All feared cold and hunger. Sam whispers in Lord Edmure’s ears and he nods, standing up.

“My lords, my ladies, we all agree our combined forces must march as one, as a show of unity, but more importantly, we ought to choose a leader amongst us.” Voices and movement quiet down. “The mistakes of past wars must not be repeated, having kings popping out like mushrooms will not help anybody. We ought to think of the small folk under our care, and agree on a proper course of action once she’s...been dealt with.”

Sansa squeezes his hand and he gulps.

“I have discussed this matter extensively with Prince Jon”, he nods at him, “and he has been very clear about it: he does not desire the crown.”

Jon gets up slowly trying to stand very straight, but he doesn’t let go of Sansa’s hand.

“My lords, my ladies, many...” he clears his throat, “many rumors have circulated about me, but for those of you that are not from the North, in spite of them, I am a stranger.”

He looks around and sees Bran sitting across him, with the Northern lords that came here accompanying Sansa.

“Let me clear those rumors once and for all. I am indeed Lyanna Stark’s son. I have been told my parents were married but I...” He has to take a deep breath. “I have no desire to claim any crown, not in the South, not in the North. Please, believe me when I say I wish no titles and no glories, to know my family is safe and free in the North, that’s all I want.”

Gasps and whispers from the lords rise and he sits, relieved. In a daze he hears for someone calling out for the “Baratheon’s seed” but no one else picks it up.

Lord Edmure speaks again. “My lords, we have a proposal from Brandon Stark, let’s hear it.”

When he looks at Sansa she looks as baffled as him but Sam grins knowingly.

Bran speaks calmly, his voice firm. “How about a council, my lords?” He smiles. “Before the Targaryen rule each Kingdom was its own, and people didn’t have to bend the knee to a strange king to be ruled from afar, often with a whip. A new time has come to Westeros, a time to rebuild, why not rule ourselves?”.

“A council?” A young lord he doesn’t recognize speaks up. Lord Blackwood, Sansa whispers in his ear. “It won’t do, we need a King, someone strong who can submit the people under his authority”.

Some murmurs of approval follow.

“I respectfully disagree, Lord Blackwood” says Lord Edmure. “We have had more than our share of cruel kings and mad kings, and even some good ones, only to be then burdened with their children and their family squabbles.” He pauses and looks around the room. “Lord Brandon Stark has a good point, there is no reason why we couldn’t rule ourselves.”

When the meeting ends all they have achieved is to name a representative of every kingdom with Lord Edmure acting as the head of the council. This is to be a temporary position that they will fill with another member of the council when needed. He has not gotten every single detail of the discussions, busying his mind with his own plans, but he’s sure Sam has properly recorded everything. Sam seems to be enjoying this, and strangely, Brandon too. Once again, he refused to be appointed for the North, asking instead to be considered “merely an advisor”, whatever that means. Sansa accepted to represent the North, thanking the lords with poise and calm, although he noticed her blushing.

Sansa.

In the books there was always a warning, a voice in the wind, a vision in a magic mirror. The lady and her knight always knew when something was about to happen, when something bad was coming their way. She smells the air, nothing. She point her ears, nothing. Then she hears a howl in the distance.

_Brother. ___

_ __ _

She raises her face to the moon and howls, but when she looks again, it’s not Grey Wind she sees, it’s Robb.

_ __ _

_Robb.___

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

“Sansa?”

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

She yawns, struggling to wake up. He is smiling at her, sitting on the bed.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

“You were dreaming”.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

She nods. Jon is fully dressed, he must have gotten up very early.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

“I dreamt of Robb”. She volunteers. It’s just a silly dream, isn’t it? She is not Lady. Lady is dead. Buried under a tree in Winterfell.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

“Well, I wanted to let you sleep some more, but plans are on the way. I will write to Tyrion to arrange a meeting.” He pauses. “Or maybe you should? You are the representative of the North”. He smiles proudly at her new minted title. All she can think of it’s a desk full of work waiting for her at Winterfell.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

They sit at the table with parchment and fresh ink while she nibbles distractedly at a piece of bread, looking at Jon, letting his voice fill her. The warmth of his body, the curve of his back. When he wears his hair down he looks younger, less severe, less like father. When she finally signs her name on the parchment, she touches her belly to reassure herself. She watches Jon stamp the Stark seal. An offer of food, conditions, assurances.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

A sense of dread fills her, and she wishes to be Lady again, to sniff the air and sense the danger.

_ _ _ __ _ _ _


	15. Fire and blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter the rebel lords offer food (because it’s hugely important, even if the show writers kind of forgot) in exchange for their surrender and Tyrion will do anything to survive, that’s why he is “helping” with Sansa’s plan, but he is a villain, more like in the books. After Tyrion’s POV we have Jon’s POV. He IS a Queenslayer and he feels GUILTY because he is a decent man, but he is not in love with a piro maniac kween. Her death occurs in a slightly different way than in the show but still by Jon’s blade. Mentions of blood and a bit of PTSD for Jon.

Tyrion.

He hadn’t ventured outside for days, keeping to the fire in his chambers. The last raven that arrived just before the storm had no comfort for him either, for he had no desire to face his Queen with the proposal it contained, and he specially dreaded to tell her who had signed the message. He found her still, sitting by the window, her long silver tresses unbound for the night like a veil around her angelical face.

_Bride of fire_.

He shudders, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from the memory of her words.

“Better let them starve. It will end their suffering.”

But he’s a practical man, always has been, and he managed to get a nod from her, seemingly uninterested in meeting the peace embassy. Good. He can negotiate a truce better than her. When the storm began to die down the first carts were arriving already, grain mostly, and goats. He has to give to Sansa, the clever devil she is, offering the milk of the goats for the city orphans is a master move.

Lovely Sansa is not here today though, but sour faced Lord Edmure and Lord Royce are. He greets them as warmly as he can, purportedly ignoring the mounted knights of the Vale that have accompanied them, their menacing swords and pikes gleaming in the sun. Winter is giving them a truce too, it seems. Waiting behind them is Jon Snow. His clothes look new but not luxurious, and his frown is as deep as always. Dragon in wolf’s clothes. He had requested an audience with her and her only, and she granted it. He advised against it but when he introduced him in her solar she seemed pleased to see him. He left quickly to meet with the lords.

—————————————————————————-

Conditions of surrender are agreed, conditions he knows Daenerys won’t submit to. If she still had the dragon these lords would have not come here, with great talks of councils and new beginnings. As it is, opening the gates of the city to the rebellious lords it’s a wise move considering she has no one on her side, and her troops, still numerous, won’t fight long on an empty stomach, or with frozen toes. The weight in his stomach tells him that she will say no to it, that she has no interest in saving lives in either side, that if it comes to that she will rather let them all burn than stop. Unless Jon could convince her. But she is most likely to grow wings on her back than surrender.

He finds her doors locked, from inside. In his broken Valyrian he asks the guards for Jon Snow but they have no idea what he means. Perplexed, he knocks and calls for her to no avail. A chill runs down his spine and suddenly he remembers Sansa’s final words in her letter.

“The most heroic thing we can do is look the truth in the face.”

————————————————————————

Jon.

He can’t remember her words. But he can never forget her face.

Something sweet. She was saying something sweet.

“We are family”. He declared.

He has forgotten her words.

She smiled. She seemed almost...giddy.

Something about blood. About destiny.

_His head throbs, as if somebody had beat him with a blunt sword_.

“I am unarmed. You can see it.” He said, spreading his hands to show her.

He can’t remember what she said but when she turned her back on him for a second he grabbed his dagger and moved quickly. He laid her down slowly, gently, making no sound that the guards outside could hear. Then he went to the door and locked it from inside. He was strangely calmed until he saw the blood his hands left on the handle. Then his instincts kicked in. He heard and saw nothing after that.

_His head is throbbing_.

He climbed down her window, his fingers stiff. When his boots hit the ground with a thump he sprinted to the beach. Then he turned around a corner and he nearly knocked him down.

Tyrion froze when he saw him.

_I left the dagger_.

Tyrion opened his mouth but no words came. Then he stepped aside.


	16. A time for wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of the “dragon pit meeting” from the show, with a bit more detail into Jon’s sentence and Brandon’s rise to power. The ending is the same, Jon is sent to the Wall, but I tried to write a version of Sacrificial Jon. Northern Independence matters folks. Also, Sam visiting Jon in his cell makes a lot more sense than Tyrion but Tyrion will do his thing, that is being an asshole. Lots of Jonsa heartbreak but I promise you a hopeful epilogue after this. I swear it by the old Gods and the new. See note at the end about Brandon.

Sansa.

“I did not call the guards on him. I swear.”

The chains around his wrists clink when he takes a step towards her. “Sansa.”

It does not matter. Not really. Not now.

Their plan was good, Jon would go to the dock where Northern troops will be waiting for him. It’s no one’s fault than when Tyrion surrendered the city several Unsullied ignored his commands. It’s no one’s fault that in spite of the hunger and the cold, many of her soldiers refused to depose their weapons, forcing the rebel armies to chase them down narrow alleys. It’s no one’s fault that days later they are still fighting, the council struggling to convince them to leave Westeros for good.

“There aren’t enough dungeons to put them all in.” Lord Edmure told her with a shrug.

Everyone is tired of fighting. Unsullied and Westerosi alike. Lord Royce apologised profusely but he left anyway, as the council meetings dragged on for days. And Jon is still in his cell. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the plan at all, and the new captain of the Unsullied won’t bulge. He kept asking for the head of “the Queen’s killer”. He wanted Tyrion’s too. She would have given it to him. She would have given him a thousand heads in exchange for Jon’s. And then the Greyjoy woman showed up.

Arya made threats. Yara made threats. Dorne disagreed with every proposal. Everyone stopped listening to everyone and Sam suggested Jon was safer in his cell for the moment being. A very reasonable suggestion. She doesn’t want to be reasonable. She wants to scream and tear at her hair, and tell them they are cowards and traitors, that Jon is a prisoner for doing what no one else dared to do. That they all owe him their lives and their future while he languishes in a humid cell.

A couple of days ago, Gendry made some inquiries and came back saying he was fed and unharmed, as if she were supposed to be satisfied with that. The sun shines above the dragon pit, this false spring mocking them all. When the snow melted mixed with the blood it left red puddles on the streets. She stops listening at some point, exhausted and angry. Lord Edmure talks and she sees his lips move but the words make no sense to her, some discussion ensues and a vote she pays no attention to.

“Sansa.” Arya hisses and she forces herself to listen.

“Do you, Brandon Stark, swear to serve the realm with your wise counsel? To be impartial and just in all matters presented to you as long as you preside this council?”

“It’s why I came all the way down here.” Bran turns to her and smiles.

She finds nothing in her heart for the only brother she has left. Undaunted, she turns to face him. “The North will remain independent as it has been for a thousand years.”

Brandon nods.

Jon.

His headache is now more of a dull pain, like a sore muscle or an old burn. Memories won’t leave him. He dreamt of Robb last night, he was tall and smiling in Winterfell’s courtyard. And he remembered Sansa was sitting on their bed, her hair loose, the morning after the council when she wrote the raven. Patiently, she listed amounts of wheat and barley and demanded guarantees.

For what they were worth.

She had dreamt of Robb, she said with sleepy eyes. What if? He hoped, what if we named him Robb? And then he had kissed Sansa’s flat belly.

Memories won’t leave him. She is not here, although he can smell her, he wonders if her belly shows now. He has been in this cell for so many days he has lost track of time, his guards his only company until Tyrion showed up. He had grand talks of sacrifice, duty, honour, and love, and rambled enthusiastically about how generous the council had been to spare him of a trial. He said he would visit him at Castle Black one day, for old time’s sake.

He wants him to. It will be his pleasure to throw him from the top of the Wall.

Then Sam brought him news that sounded even harder to believe. Brandon is head of the council, the small folk think he is the one who brought the spring, because there hasn’t been a storm since he arrived. They say he can control the dragon with his mind, they say he will live forever. They call him “King Brandon” and believe he can heal the sick.

The lords of the council are not thrilled but they dismiss those as innocuous superstitions. They are satisfied with the few measured words he says at the end of meetings and with how quick decisions are made. They rebuild, Sam says, and proudly announces to him he has now official permission from the Citadel to stay and help, perhaps, he hopes, he can earn his links here.

“What about the North?”. He asked.

_Sansa. Sansa_.

Agreements. Oaths. Papers. Councils. Discussions. Sam came back and made him sign something, but his head still throbbed badly back then and he didn’t want to read it.

“She fought for you, you know?” Sam assures him. “She wanted to come see you. The captain of the Unsullied said he didn’t trust her, that she may help you escape. They are leaving. After you.”

He takes his time getting dressed. Black trousers, black doublet. Someone has sent him Longclaw and his cloak. When he sees her standing at the dock he cannot breathe. He kneels to Brandon, unsure what the protocol is for a council head. Arya cries. Then Sansa hugs him and whispers in his ear.

“Wait for me, I will send for you when is safe”.

_Sansa_, he wants to say, _don’t, let them have their justice, let them call me Queenslayer. I’ll do it gladly, for us, for all the North_. But the words won’t leave his mouth and hers is a steel embrace. She cries,_ I am sorry, I am sorry_.

He sees the Unsullied ships, Greyjoy ships too. And one with the Stark banner. He turns to leave and he can’t, his legs won’t go, and he hugs her again, and holds her tight. He tries to say goodbye but he can’t, a scream logged in his throat. And he whispers in her ear instead.

_Robb_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am purposefully leaving Brandon’s game open to interpretation. I believe he is good and can be a good leader, but he might as well be the next villain. This is in no way meant to be offensive to his character or “ableist”. Is Brandon going to use his powers for good or for bad? Your guess is as good as mine.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not Daenerys friendly but I wanted to reflect a conflicted individual and also I think she genuinely cares for Jon, in her own twisted way. You don’t have to agree with it but hopefully it will make an interesting read.


End file.
